Welcome to Fantasy Island
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke answers some of Leslie's and Christian's questions about the origins of Fantasy Island, reliving a few past fantasies along the way. Follows 'Mischief and Mayhem'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _It really shook me when Ricardo Montalbán died on January 14, and I'm still having a hard time believing he's gone. I don't think he ever received the accolades and tributes he deserved, either in life or in death. It's left to his family, friends and fans, I think, to provide that tribute. This story is part of mine. Thank you, Señor Montalbán, for all the years of entertainment you provided for several generations, and thank you especially for portraying Mr. Roarke for seven years. For those of us who first learned of you through watching_ Fantasy Island_, the show holds a special place in our hearts, for through the role of Mr. Roarke, we discovered all your other work and had the pleasure of hoping to catch your performances in subsequent projects. You will be sorely missed, Señor.

* * *

_§ § § -- November 19, 2005

For some time now Leslie had been sitting at the tea table, looking lost in her own thoughts. Since it was a quiet Saturday evening, Roarke let her drift for a while, but he was never unaware of her mood. But when she eventually stared vacantly at him, he was forced to call her on it. "Leslie, have you been in your own mind at all this evening?"

She blinked and came back to the moment with a visible jolt. "Why do you ask?"

"As if you didn't know," Roarke said humorously. "You've been sitting there for at least the last half hour, if not longer, staring at nothing. Is there something on your mind, or are you merely woolgathering?"

Leslie shrugged, looking just a little bit sheepish, and shifted her position on the loveseat. "Oh, well…for some reason I started thinking about how long this house has stood here, and then about how long you've been running this island as a resort, and then how long you've been on the island, period…I guess I'm in just the right mood for a history lesson or something. And no, it's got nothing to do with that third-grade teacher's _Magic Treehouse_ fantasy." She grinned at Roarke's chuckle. "We probably won't need to get those books for the triplets—we can just give them firsthand looks at their history lessons when they're in school. If you agree, of course."

"Hmm," Roarke said, pretending to muse. "That, my dear daughter, remains to be seen. You know I don't like to overuse my time-travel abilities, and you also know there's far more preparation required for such fantasies than meets the layman's eye. So, since you are well aware of all that, what's the point of your little narrative?"

"I'm just wondering about the ultimate origins of this island and its nature," Leslie said slowly. "I guess I have a few specific questions, and when Christian gets here he might have some more, but these are mine anyway. I mean…to start with, was this island formed by the same forces as all the others in the group, and around the South Pacific in general? Or is it someone's…well, creation?"

Roarke considered her question for a long moment, still both amused and bemused. He was frankly astonished that Leslie hadn't thought to ask such questions many years before. Too curious to resist asking, he put the query to her. "Why are you coming up with all this just at this time? It seems odd that you never plied me with these questions when you were still a teenager."

"I think because I was so overawed by you through most of my teenage years," Leslie said, clearly thinking carefully about her answer, "and then it somehow just slipped my mind. I don't really know otherwise. Sometimes they do occur to me, but it's always at a bad time—I'm lying awake in the middle of the night, or I'm on my way to some errand on the other side of the island, or something like that—and by the time it's a _good_ time, I've forgotten again. Now they've finally come to mind at an opportune moment, and I figured I'd better ask or else endure another eon of wondering about them."

Roarke laughed. "Ah, I see. Well, perhaps I can answer at least some of those questions for you, if you're inclined toward asking Mariki if she would mind providing a little refreshment. I suspect we'll be here for some time."

Christian came in a few minutes after Leslie had put in her request and sank onto the loveseat beside his wife, looking a little drained. "I hope the triplets are asleep," he said after kissing Leslie. "It's been one of those days that make me want to retire from the office altogether and just be the chairman of the board and nothing else."

"Then I've got good news, my love," Leslie said, grinning at him. "They've been asleep for a good hour or so already, and Mariki's coming in with something to drink while Father and I talk about the mysterious, shadowy beginnings of Fantasy Island."

"Oh, now that sounds like something to relax to," said Christian, brightening with anticipation. "I've always had this question that I was a bit afraid to ask. I'd like to know how you became the highest authority here. After all, this is a South Seas island, and I'm sure there were indigenous inhabitants here before you arrived. And obviously you're not native Polynesian. You must have arrived here at some comparatively recent date and somehow set yourself up as king, or whatever the local equivalent was."

Roarke laughed, rising from the desk and taking a more comfortable chair on the other side of the tea table from Christian and Leslie. "The proper term may not have been 'king', or the Polynesian cognate thereof," he said, "but you _are_ onto something, Christian. However, I think the tale of this island's history as I know it might flow better if we take it chronologically. Leslie had several questions to start with, and perhaps the first one that should be addressed is whether this island came into physical existence at the same time as the others in the group hereabouts."

"Why wouldn't it have?" Christian asked Leslie curiously.

"Because of the strange properties of the soil and plants here," she explained. "There's a species somewhere on the island that can temporarily restore sight to the blind, and another one that produces a natural sweetener that affects strong emotions. Are you familiar at all with Shakespeare?"

"Of course," Christian said, pretending affrontery. "Just another subject among the very many that I had to absorb during my Royal Comportment tutoring. We had overviews of the world's greatest and most renowned writers."

"Okay, then you'll recognize the flower 'love-in-idleness', from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. That actually grows here, though I have yet to see a specimen myself. And of course, there's the dread amakarna. Not that it doesn't grow elsewhere, but still—and don't forget that little rose you named after me." Christian grinned at that, and she grinned back and went on, "There are all kinds of peculiar flora on this island, and a few allegedly mythical fauna too. If those things can exist here when they don't anywhere else on earth, I have to wonder, by logical progression, if the island itself is of some origin other than terrestrial."

Roarke, having been watching their byplay, smiled. "I must tell you directly, before I begin, that I was asked not to reveal the identities of those who originally approached me about the business I am in. However, I see no reason not to enlighten you about whatever else you may be wondering. As to the island, originally it was indeed formed by the same forces that formed all the other islands in the vicinity. In the beginning, I understand it was quite an ordinary little island, with nothing in particular to distinguish it from those that surrounded it, except perhaps its size. It's the largest for several hundred miles, and is a little more than fifty miles from west to east, a bit less than twelve north to south. Yet it was in such a remote and otherwise uninteresting section of the ocean that it remained overlooked for a great many years, except by the various Polynesian tribes who came and went over the centuries, most on their way to other places. New Zealand Maoris settled here for some time on their way to their ultimate destination. Not all of them departed when the time came to move on, and the natives here now are their descendants."

"Then what made it the way it is now?" Leslie asked.

"The proper pronoun would be 'who', and the answer to that would be those who consulted me about my business. They were aware I would need to be fully and extensively equipped to conduct such an operation, and handled the entire provisioning themselves."

"Were you here before these…entities approached you?" Christian asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Initially, after my upbringing in what is now southeastern Mexico, I began to wander the earth as a young man, especially once my parents died. I've seen and done much, far more than most people can quite imagine, I daresay. But through all the years of wandering, I never felt that I had a true home, that I belonged anywhere.

"Eventually my travels took me to Australia, populated then only by its indigenous peoples, whom I found to be very friendly and accommodating. Perhaps due to their Dreamtime—a ritual thought to be shrouded in local mythology and magic—they seemed to understand my powers and abilities better than had anyone else I'd encountered till then. Even so, they knew that I would never truly find peace among the superstitious peoples of the world, and they advised me to seek out a place of my own. One elderly man even told me he had heard a story, told for generations in his family, about an isolated island in a group of tiny reefs and atolls and small islets that might suit me perfectly." Roarke smiled, looking reminiscent; Christian and Leslie stared at him in fascination. "I participated in a Dreamtime ritual with him. I must say, it was and remains one of the most amazing experiences I have ever had, and I've had many.

"I saw what the elder saw: a vision of this very island. I also received instructions on what to do to get here. With the help of that elder and others in the tribe, I built a boat, provisioned myself carefully, and set off. It wasn't at all easy. There were times when I found myself obligated to prevail upon the mercy of the denizens of the ocean."

Christian looked confused, but Leslie grinned. "Don't tell me, that's how you first met Nyah. It has to be."

Roarke laughed. "Very good, Leslie! So it was. Nyah and I, despite the peculiarities of our relationship that you'll surely remember being witness to in your teens, have always been good friends, even though she's quite mercurial. She was intelligent enough to comprehend that I was equipped with powers and resources of my own that she couldn't match, and gracious enough to acknowledge it. Otherwise there's a very good chance that I would never have reached these shores."

"If you don't mind my asking," Christian said, "when was that?"

Roarke paused a moment, studying him, then half-smiled and said dryly, "I doubt you would believe me." Leslie laughed at Christian's guilty shrug, and her father leaned forward and added with just a touch of wicked glee, "However, I will tell you that I've been here for some three hundred years."

Christian blinked slowly, just once, then lost focus, apparently counting back. "Then in that case," he said after a moment, "you'd have arrived here in the early 1800s, perhaps at the time my multiple-great grandfather, King Johan V, was having Premier University built."

"You have an excellent grasp of history, Christian," Roarke said with a pleased smile. "That is indeed when I arrived on this island. Unfortunately, there was nothing close to the level of civilization I would have found on Lilla Jordsö, or in many other parts of the world. It was nearly all jungle at the time, except for a few pockets of natives who either made their living from fishing or a little pearl diving, or farmed the fertile land around the dormant Mount Tutumoa near the western end of the island. What you know now as the resort, on this end of the island, and the Enclave—indeed, everything from approximately the point of the mountain on east was unchecked jungle.

"The fishing village you know now existed at the time of my arrival; it's the oldest settlement on the island. The farming areas have largely disappeared, with the exception of the pineapple plantation. At one time sugar and such tropical fruits as mango and bananas were grown here; one unusually enterprising young man even had a small orange grove. Its remnants can still be seen around the old opera house." Leslie nodded; Christian looked blank, and Roarke clarified, "The venue where the reception was held after your forced wedding to Marina LiSciola."

"Oh, yes, of course," Christian said and met Leslie's rueful look. "I tried to persuade you to see my point of view under one of those old trees."

"And I was still too raw with pain to really listen," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry, my love, I really am. I wish I'd listened to my common sense." Christian kissed her cheek, and she smiled a little. "I remember standing there waiting for you and thinking I could still catch a whiff of oranges in the air, and wondering if some colonist had planted those trees."

"And now you know the truth," Roarke said, smiling. "Although, as I soon discovered, you weren't as far off the mark as you believe. I was not, after all, the first white European to set foot upon these shores. That honor belonged to someone else altogether."

Christian raised a brow. "Well, that's quite the revelation. Who beat you to it?"

"Ah, now there's a tale. Leslie, I'm sure you'll well remember a certain very rich man who decided that his fantasy was to own my island."

She winced. "Oh my God, yes." She turned to Christian. "That was the year Julie was working for Father to earn the money to open her house as a B&B. It was a really weird weekend actually, with all sorts of highs and lows. It was one of the most emotionally exhausting fantasies I'd ever weathered."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- February 13, 1982

This weekend, Tattoo was with them at the plane dock and Julie had another project to attend to. So when their first guest emerged from the plane, it was Tattoo who asked the opening question. "Oh, boss, she's sure a pretty lady. What's her name?"

"Her name is Miss Rebecca Walters," Roarke replied; "she is the manager of a florist shop." Tattoo grinned.

"If she came here to find some pretty flowers, she came to the right place, right, boss?"

Leslie grinned at this, and Roarke chuckled. "Yes, that's quite right, Tattoo…but Miss Walters' fantasy is to meet a very special man: a man who will do anything for her, a man who will always be around…a man who will need her just as much as she needs him."

"Isn't that every woman's fantasy?" Tattoo said with a wink at Leslie.

"Yes, Tattoo, but in the case of Miss Walters, I think she'll soon discover that finding that kind of man could be a most…unnerving experience." Roarke smiled mysteriously, and Leslie shrugged her shoulders.

"If you say so," she said. "But you'd never find a woman who'd believe it." Roarke's smile lingered, though he made no reply. Instead he centered his attention on a trio of business-suited folks, two men and a woman, coming down the docking ramp. "Are those the ones with the information on the history of the island?" she wanted to know.

"Yes, you might say that," Roarke said, frowning. "The first gentleman is the shipping tycoon, Douglas Picard; the lady with him is his sister, Eunice. And the other man is Mr. Picard's financial advisor, Mr. Justin Rothwell. I think we'll find that Mr. Picard's fantasy is one of the most unusual and challenging ever to confront us."

"Why?" Tattoo asked.

"Mr. Picard's fantasy is to claim ownership of Fantasy Island," murmured Roarke. The statement, delivered so calmly, made Leslie and Tattoo stare at each other in alarm, and neither could quite understand how Roarke, delivering his weekly greeting, could remain so composed when their very home was at stake. But Roarke's grim stare at Picard betrayed his own anger and concern.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Miss Walters, do you think you would immediately recognize this 'ideal man' if you were to meet him?" Roarke asked. He and Leslie and Tattoo were strolling with their guest across a bridge not far from one of the more secluded beaches on the island, one where Leslie occasionally went when she really needed to think about things.

"Oh, absolutely, in a minute!" Rebecca Walters said confidently. As Tattoo had said, she had a pretty face; but her hairstyle and dress made her seem older than she really was, shy and retiring, like a spinster. Rebecca's simple pink dress with its demure cream-lace Peter Pan collar seemed to hark back to the late nineteenth century, at least in Leslie's opinion, which she kept to herself.

"How would you know?" Roarke asked.

Rebecca said, "Oh, well, he would be courteous, and—and dignified, yet spiritual. Fun-loving, you know, and never predictable. And he'd be kind and wonderful to me."

"Ah," Roarke said, smiling broadly. "And that is your image of the perfect husband for you?" Rebecca nodded firmly.

"Oh yes," she said.

"Yes…" Roarke said, then glanced at his assistant. "Tattoo, will you escort Miss Walters to the lagoon, please?"

Tattoo shot a dubious glance in that direction, then protested incredulously, "Boss, men don't hang out on the lagoon!" Leslie snickered.

Roarke, for his part, glanced skyward with some exasperation. "Tattoo, you must follow your own advice." It was advice he'd given Leslie the previous evening at supper when she had admitted she was dying to know what kind of information Douglas Picard had on the island. "Practice patience! Remember, patience?" Tattoo rolled his eyes a little and nodded, but he clearly wasn't happy about it. Leslie tried hard to suppress her smile while Roarke turned to their guest and announced, "You will now be taking your first step towards fulfillment of your fantasy, Miss Walters." He gestured toward the lagoon.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Rebecca said with breathless anticipation, clasping Roarke's hands. He smiled.

"You're most welcome," he replied. With that, Rebecca turned and left with Tattoo at her side; Roarke watched with a smile, and Leslie leaned on the bridge railing and gazed after them.

"Well," she said at length, "if nothing else, they can at least enjoy the beach."

Roarke turned a bit sharply, doing something of a double-take, as if he had forgotten she was there. "Yes," he said as though humoring her. "We have an appointment, so I suggest we hurry."

They arrived at the main house just in time to meet Douglas Picard and Justin Rothwell; the two men wore grim, determined expressions. When Roarke introduced Leslie, Rothwell shot her a dismissive glance; Picard didn't even go that far.

"This island was originally purchased by a Captain Verdugo, who sailed with the Spanish Armada," Douglas Picard said flatly, without even bothering to make eye contact with Roarke; he simply forked over a sheet of paper. Roarke took it and studied it while Picard continued, "They transferred the deed to the island on June 27th…Justin, fifteen…"

"Fifteen eighty-eight," Rothwell supplied.

"Fifteen eighty-eight," Picard echoed him, staring straight ahead through the open French shutters. Roarke let a pause elapse, primary attention on the deed, before speaking.

"Have a seat, won't you?" Without bothering to see whether they did, he moved back behind the desk and stared intently at the deed; Leslie, left standing near the windows, scuttled over to join him, using only her toes as if afraid to make any noise. She was quite intimidated in actual fact; the deed looked authentic to her, and she was terrified that this might be her last weekend ever on Fantasy Island. She huddled beside Roarke, casting a furtive glance at the two men before peering at the deed across Roarke's arm.

Finally Roarke looked up. "May I ask how this document happened to come into your possession, Mr. Picard?"

"Quite by accident," Picard said tonelessly. "I recently bought a villa in Madrid that was built originally by that same Captain Verdugo. It stayed within his family for the last four centuries." Roarke nodded and returned his gaze to the deed.

"The purchase price included all other assets, and we found the deed to this island among them," Rothwell added. "I can assure you that it's valid."

"Oh, I have not questioned its validity, Mr. Rothwell," Roarke said with cool politeness. "But this island means a great deal to me, just as it is now, filled with the cherished memories of so many people." He grew brisk and moved back out from behind the desk, with a quick hand on Leslie's shoulder to indicate that she was to stay put—something she was more than happy to do. "Which is precisely the reason I don't intend to sit idly by and let you take it away from me."

_Bravo, Mr. Roarke!_ thought Leslie with relief. It wasn't that she had been afraid he would do such a thing; but he had seemed so strangely calm about the situation that it was extremely reassuring to her to see him show his true emotions at last.

"Well, I'm afraid there's very little you can do about it, Mr. Roarke," Picard said.

Roarke leaned against the front of the desk. "Oh, no, Mr. Picard, there is something I can do about it, and I intend to. When you consider the antiquity of this document, I am curious to see how an international tribunal would resolve this matter."

"Are you threatening litigation?" demanded Justin Rothwell.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Rothwell, I certainly am," Roarke said, calmly but firmly. "And as you know, a settlement could take years to be resolved in the courts. During that time, naturally, I would get an injunction, and continue to operate precisely as I do now."

Rothwell and Picard looked at each other; then Picard, fingering the deed which Roarke had returned to him, remarked, "I thought you might take this step, Mr. Roarke, so perhaps we can resolved our problem in some other manner."

Roarke's slight smile was chilly. "Well, that, of course, depends, Mr. Picard."

Picard got to his feet. "May I suggest a competition—a competition between us." Leslie stood up straight and stared at him; Roarke frowned at him curiously. "Something the French call _l'épreuve d'esprit du corps la raison."_

"A test of the mind, the body, and the spirit?" translated Roarke with awakening interest. Picard stared at him with the ghost of a smile; Roarke straightened up and gave a nod. "Very well, Mr. Picard, I accept your challenge." He extended his hand, and Picard shook it. Leslie caught her lower lip between her teeth and began to gnaw on it as if it were a chunk of bubble gum, frightened anew.

Once the two men had been taken to their accommodations, Leslie turned to Roarke, who slowly lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. "That guy's about the coldest character I've ever seen," she ventured her assessment. "I mean…he's worse than Michael was. Michael had a real temper, but at least he showed some emotion and reacted to whatever anyone said to him. This guy's like a walking block of ice. Nothing penetrates him. It's like…he always gets whatever he wants."

Roarke had been watching her. "And that worries you immensely, doesn't it?" he asked.

She nodded. "I really don't like this. What happens if he wins? He'll probably kick us all out of here, and tear down the hotel and the bungalows and…and this house…"

Roarke shifted in his chair to regard her fully. "And are you so certain he _will_ win? What happened to your faith in me, young lady, the faith that we so carefully cultivated just a few months ago in our last battle against Mephistopheles?"

Leslie folded her arms over her chest. "Mr. Roarke, I'm no dope—I'm almost seventeen, you know. We don't even know what kind of competition this guy's got in mind! I do have faith in you, but there's no telling what this guy's planning to do. It could be anything. It could be something that even with your powers, you'd have no way of beating. How do we know what your odds and his odds are till we find out what kind of contest it's gonna be?"

Roarke relaxed a bit and smiled. "You make a good point, Leslie," he said. "However, you must remember that Mr. Picard's abilities are limited, both physically and mentally, to the very best that he can possibly do. As you don't know the odds in whatever contest he may dream up, neither do you know how his and my respective abilities in said contest will match up against one another. Even without my powers, I stand as good a chance as anyone else of besting him. A little optimism is a very enlightening thing, Leslie. It can impart courage, resolve, perhaps even a measure of extra strength." He paused to let that sink in, then smiled at her. "Try to remember that. Now, suppose we have a little walk; I think we could both benefit from some fresh air, don't you?"

They had been strolling down the lane for no more than a few minutes when, quite out of nowhere, a pearl-gray Rolls-Royce popped into existence from nothing at all, gliding slowly along the dirt track toward them. Rebecca Walters sat in the back of it, quite a bit more elegantly dressed than she'd been when they first met her, sipping from a glass of champagne. Leslie and Roarke stopped while the car pulled up alongside them and came to a halt.

"Mr. Roarke, I really don't understand what's happening, but it's a terrific start," Rebecca complimented him, raising a glass of champagne in salute.

"Well, I'm delighted you approve, Miss Walters." She handed him the glass, and he said in surprise, "Oh, thank you!" Rebecca raised her own glass, clinked it against Roarke's and settled back while the car drove off. Roarke watched it depart and lifted the glass after it before turning at Leslie's touch on his arm.

"Could I have just a taste?" she asked hopefully. "I've never tried champagne."

Roarke raised an eyebrow at her. "Perhaps when you turn eighteen," he said and chuckled when she rolled her eyes. He took a sip and playfully saluted her with the glass.

‡ ‡ ‡

About ninety minutes later the pair went to a mansion Picard had rented in the Enclave; Rothwell let Roarke and Leslie inside, and Picard turned from a window. "Mr. Roarke, I'd like to introduce you to my sister Eunice," he said.

"I am very happy to meet you, Miss Picard," Roarke said, shaking the woman's hand. "Are you enjoying your stay on Fantasy Island?"

Eunice glanced at her brother before admitting, "Actually, I haven't seen that much of it yet. I'm not that much of a mixer, Mr. Roarke." Roarke nodded, but no one else spoke; Leslie's head drooped somewhat and her demeanor became timid. Roarke glanced at her, as if he sensed her withdrawing into herself. She had insisted on coming with him, particularly as Tattoo was heavily involved in Miss Walters' fantasy; and he knew she was concerned over the fate of the island and preferred witnessing whatever contests Picard dreamed up rather than sitting it out in agony at the main house. If truth be told, he himself would rather she were with him anyway. Unfortunately, the Picards and Rothwell had ignored her almost completely, ever since their initial arrival.

Eunice turned and walked away, and finally Picard spoke. "Yes…well, uh, shall we get down to the rules of our little competition, Mr. Roarke?"

"By all means, Mr. Picard," Roarke agreed.

Picard led the way to a small round table whereupon were laid out nine oversized playing cards, face down. "Each row of cards represents one of the three categories we'll compete in."

"The mind, the body and the spirit," Roarke said.

Picard nodded. "Correct. Now, there are three cards in each row, and it's your choice, Mr. Roarke. On the other side, it will tell us which one of the events it will be. The first row is that of the mind." He indicated the table.

"This one," Roarke said quizzically, and Picard nodded. Leslie watched, holding her breath, as Roarke reached out and lifted the middle card in the top row, overturning it to reveal a stylized knight against a checkered background.

"Ah, chess," Picard said. "Excellent. Do you play chess, Mr. Roarke?"

"On occasion, Mr. Picard, on occasion…yes," Roarke said. Leslie smiled faintly; she knew nothing whatsoever about chess, but she had seen Roarke play a couple of times, at least before Chester the Chimp had pilfered some of the pieces of his set. She grimaced to herself; that had been at least two years ago.

"And now, the test of the body, Mr. Roarke," Picard prompted. Roarke reached out again and this time chose the right-hand card in the middle row. When he turned it face-up, it showed two sets of arms locked against each other, one set upside-down relative to the other, elbows touching. Leslie's eyes grew huge.

"Arm-wrestling," she breathed in astonishment, in spite of herself.

Picard spared her the barest glance. "No explanation necessary?" he inquired, and Roarke shook his head. "Now, the third and final card…the test of the spirit."

Roarke nodded slowly, contemplated the cards for a second or two and picked up the middle card on the bottom row. This one bore a paragraph in elegant script, which Roarke read aloud for Leslie's benefit as much as Picard's. " 'Since the spirit is an intangible human quality, the winner of the Third and Final contest shall exhibit a compassionate, unselfish act which must surpass, by mutual and ethical agreement, that of his opponent.' " He looked up at Picard with lively interest in his dark eyes. "The most difficult test of all, Mr. Picard."

Picard leaned forward intensely. "When shall we start?"

Roarke extracted his gold pocket watch and regarded it for a moment. "Shall we say, twelve noon?" he suggested.

"Excellent," Picard said.

Roarke nodded, smiled with minimal warmth and dropped the cards on the table. "Will you excuse us?" He guided Leslie out the door, bidding Eunice farewell on his way out. At the door, however, Roarke hesitated, and Leslie stopped in the hallway, staring anxiously at him over her shoulder.

"Uh, Miss Picard, there is a great deal to discover on Fantasy Island," Roarke said. "I sincerely hope you decide to look around."

"I'll think about it, Mr. Roarke," Eunice told him crisply, but with a smile.

"Please do," Roarke urged quietly. "Mr. Rothwell." Rothwell nodded back and closed the door behind him. Leslie fell into step beside him, feeling almost as though she had returned to a warm room from a pool of stark chill.

They had an early lunch along with Tattoo, who had left Rebecca Walters with company, as it happened. "Well, I'm not sure what to make of it, boss," he admitted frankly when Roarke asked who Miss Walters' "company" was. "He, uh…says he's a genie."

"A what?" Leslie blurted.

"Wonderful!" Roarke said as if he hadn't heard her; his face lit up, surprising her greatly. "The currents and the tides were favorable after all! I knew Justinaphocales Araminian Aristopholous was passing this way, and your report confirms that he did indeed land on the beach as I had hoped. Thank you, Tattoo."

Tattoo looked almost as startled as Leslie was. "I thought…I didn't know you knew Joe." At Roarke's raised eyebrow, he explained, "That's what Miss Walters is calling him—Joe. She couldn't pronounce his real name."

"Geez, no wonder," Leslie said, still disbelieving. "A real, honest-to-gosh genie?"

"Yes, indeed," Roarke told her. "And yes, Tattoo, I've known Mr. Aristopholous for a great many years. I haven't seen him for an unimaginable stretch of time, so it's good to know that he is doing well. I think Miss Walters is in good hands—and as well she is, for I'll need your help."

"Sure, boss, with what?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke explained to him about the contests that were to be set up between him and Douglas Picard. "The first contest is the test of the mind, for which there will be a chess match," he said. "To be certain we are completely impartial, I have arranged for a larger-than-life-size board and pieces to be set up, so that someone other than Mr. Picard and I can move the pieces. Leslie has warned me that her knowledge of chess runs solely to the names of some of the playing pieces; so if you would, my friend, I'd like you to move the pieces around the board for us."

"Okay, boss, that's fine," Tattoo agreed. "When's the game?"

"At noon," Roarke said, "directly after we finish the meal. And we are running short on time, so we'd better hurry."

Sure enough, in the clearing where the luaus were normally held, there was a large chessboard laid out on the ground, about thirty by thirty feet, stocked with chess pieces almost Tattoo's height. Tattoo would execute each move as Roarke and Picard called it out. Now he stood in the middle of the board and announced, "Gentlemen, by mutual agreement, you've got a thirty-second time limit for each move. May the game begin."

Roarke, playing the white pieces, settled into a high-backed chair, reminiscent of a throne, on a dais. Leslie stood nervously by his side, and he took a moment to glance at her. "Perhaps you'd better sit down," he advised with a smile. "This could take some time, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"I will be anyway," she murmured, biting her lip, but did as he suggested and seated herself Indian-style a couple of feet away. Roarke gave her a wink, meant to reassure, and turned his attention to the chessboard while Picard, playing the red pieces, sat in his own chair. Eunice and Rothwell stood just off his dais, watching.

"Mr. Roarke?" Picard offered.

Roarke, without acknowledging, surveyed the board and said, "Pawn to queen four." Tattoo moved the piece in question, and Leslie watched him do it, wondering if he had as many abdominal butterflies as she did. If so, he didn't let it show.

"Ah, the queen's gambit, Mr. Roarke," Picard observed. He made a dismissive gesture at the board and requested the same move from his own side.

"Pawn to bishop four," Roarke said.

"Thank you, but I decline the gambit, Mr. Roarke," Picard said from across the board. Leslie glanced up at him, without the slightest idea what he meant, but determined to stick it out to whatever bitter end might come.

Roarke smiled. "A wise decision, Mr. Picard."

Some ninety minutes later Leslie had shifted positions at least five times and was now standing at the corner of the dais, staring at the remaining chess pieces on the board. Picard had nine pieces left; Roarke had seven, one of which was almost completely surrounded by opposing pieces. It was Picard's move, and he sat rubbing his temple and scowling at the board in perplexity.

"Time, Mr. Picard," Tattoo called out.

"Yes, yes. Knight takes pawn," barked Picard. Tattoo picked up a red knight and moved it to the requested square, bumping another of Roarke's pieces off the board; as he lifted the ousted white pawn, he looked up at Roarke and said, "Uh-oh." Leslie straightened sharply and pressed a fist against her mouth. As little as she knew about the game, she was pretty sure that Roarke having fewer pieces left than Picard wasn't a good thing.

But Roarke was as calm and collected as ever. "Bishop's pawn takes pawn," he said.

Tattoo shifted the indicated piece, hefted up a red one and brought it over to add to the collection of others Roarke had taken throughout the game. Setting it down, he looked at Roarke and murmured, "Are you sure?" Roarke said nothing, merely glanced at him with an unreadable expression. Leslie took in his lack of reaction and sighed quietly.

"No, no, I won't let you queen that pawn, Mr. Roarke," snapped Picard, visibly perturbed. "Bishop takes pawn!"

Tattoo swung around to Roarke. "You see, I told you!" he said and went off to carry out the move. Roarke still said nothing, merely contemplated his next move.

"Bishop to knight five," he said after a moment or two.

Tattoo made the move; Picard took it in and then seemed to realize it meant something. Roarke, to Leslie's surprise and perplexity, arose from his chair and stepped onto the board. "Discover check; double check; and mate, Mr. Picard."

Picard looked at his sister, who eyed him back and then appraised Roarke. Rothwell sighed gently. Picard arose and moved onto the board himself. "Clever combination," he admitted gruffly. "Clever." He stopped in front of Roarke and said, "You might like to know you just defeated the eighth-ranked chess player in the world, Mr. Roarke."

"Oh, you are indeed an excellent player, Mr. Picard," Roarke complimented him, shaking his hand, "and I consider myself fortunate to have won."

"Clever," Picard said one more time and sauntered off the board, with Rothwell following him. Roarke returned to the dais and slipped an arm around a stunned Leslie.

"I don't get it," she said, "but if he says you won, I sure am glad!"

Roarke chuckled and led her over to Tattoo, who announced proudly, "Boss, I knew you could make it!"

"Really!" Roarke said, eyes twinkling. "For a moment there I thought I detected doubt in your attitude." Tattoo shook his head, and he smiled. "No? Well, I'm happy I was wrong." Tattoo and Leslie both grinned, as much from relief as anything else.

Just then they all saw movement from the dais and watched as Eunice Picard got to her feet, regarding Roarke for a deliberate moment before putting on her large glasses and leaving wordlessly. Tattoo remarked softly, "Boss, I think Miss Picard likes you."

"She's a very nice lady," Roarke said, "but deeply troubled, I'm afraid." Leslie peered up at him and then glanced at Tattoo, who shrugged. If events turned out as usual—and if they managed not to lose Fantasy Island—they'd quite likely get to the bottom of that.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- February 13, 1982

The second contest wasn't scheduled till late that afternoon; so Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie retreated to Roarke's study after returning from the luau clearing and began tackling more mundane matters. Roarke was seated at the desk attending to some paperwork; Tattoo stood at its front, and Leslie was by his side, looking over the front page of that morning's paper. Tattoo saw it first and blurted, "Boss, look!" pointing out the open French shutters in disbelief.

Roarke turned in his chair enough to glance over his shoulder; at the same time Leslie looked up, and as Roarke went back to his papers, her entire face transformed with joyful shock. _"Snow!!"_ she shouted in delight. "It's really snowing!"

Her initial thrilled screech made Roarke whip back around in his chair once again in a beautiful double-take, to gape in disbelief at the scene beyond the shutters. The beautiful tropical paradise before them had somehow been transformed into a winter wonderland, with big snowflakes tumbling out of the sky. Roarke bolted to his feet and joined Tattoo and Leslie at the door, where they had both run to get a better look. The two men stuck their hands out, as if to confirm that the snowflakes were real; Leslie ran right out into the stuff, scooped some off a leaf and threw it into the air. "It actually feels like February out here," she crowed, face and eyes alight.

"Well, it's nice to see that someone is happy about this," Roarke remarked dryly. He and Tattoo looked at each other, then pulled their suit jackets more closely around them and hurried out to find out where this peculiar weather anomaly had come from. Leslie, who appeared to be oblivious to the below-freezing temperature, ran after them, head swiveling from side to side in an attempt to take it all in.

It didn't take them long to track down the culprit; actually, Roarke knew full well who was responsible. "Mr. Aristopholous!" he shouted over the rising wind. Tattoo stopped to watch Leslie gleefully kicking up sprays of snow as she scampered through it and shook his head in mingled disbelief and amusement. Roarke, unfortunately, wasn't quite so amenable to the situation, judging from his expression as he strode toward Rebecca Walters and a nondescript-looking man with a faintly apprehensive look on his face.

"It's freezing," Tattoo said. "I'm gonna go get my coat. Leslie, for Pete's sake, you're gonna catch a cold."

"I don't care," she sang out, delirious. Roarke gave her one swift, very exasperated glance as Tattoo rushed off toward his cottage, and turned to confront Joe the genie—the very ordinary-looking man who stood at Rebecca Walters' side.

"Mr. Aristopholous," Roarke said, "I assume you are responsible for this blizzard." He flipped up the lapels of his jacket in a mostly vain attempt to stay warm.

Joe sputtered, a little startled, but Rebecca spoke up sheepishly. "Actually, I am. I—I wished for it accidentally."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," Joe said hastily.

"We both are," Rebecca added.

Roarke raised one hand to forestall any more words. "You can save your apologies for my office, where I expect to see you both at precisely…" He checked his pocket watch, then snapped it shut. "Three o'clock. I simply will not tolerate having my other guests inconvenienced this way. And Mr. Aristopholous…I suggest you get this…this iceberg cleared away as quickly as possible! Will you please excuse me." He yanked his jacket more tightly around him and started off, only to see Leslie shaping little snowballs like an overexcited child. "Leslie Susan Hamilton, that will be quite enough! Come along!" Startled by his unusual burst of temper, she shot a glance at Joe and Rebecca before trailing in his wake.

They had taken no more than ten steps back in the direction of the main house when the snow and cold were instantly and abruptly replaced by the usual tropical warmth and sunshine. Leslie blinked, then sagged with disappointment. "Aw, rats," she muttered to herself. For the first time since she had left northern California, it had really felt like a proper winter. As much as she loved Fantasy Island, she did miss snow in winter, especially at Christmastime.

Roarke shot her a warning glare over his shoulder, and she decided the best thing to do right now was to keep her mouth shut. But he didn't scold; instead he merely said, "You'd better get back to the house. I'll be back in a few more moments; I want to make sure there's no damage from our…meteorological deviation." She nodded, watching him stride along the path, and sighed heavily, returning to the main house alone and secretly wishing Roarke hadn't so quickly figured out who'd created the snowstorm.

Eunice Picard, Roarke soon noted, had apparently decided to take the time to look around the island after all. As he came abreast of the main house, a native carrying a basket of flowers walked by, and he plucked one out of the basket and presented it to Eunice. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, visibly cheered by the simple action.

"You're very welcome," Roarke replied with a smile.

"Mr. Roarke," Eunice said as they began to stroll along the Main House Lane, "I'm very worried about my brother. He's not used to being beaten in anything, including chess."

"Oh yes, I am well aware of that, Miss Picard," Roarke observed.

"And I…I think a great deal of him, but I hope you win this competition."

"Oh?" Roarke paused to study her in surprise. "And why is that?"

She stopped too and looked up at him. "I know how much Fantasy Island means to you. And probably to that young lady you're raising as well."

"Indeed," Roarke said, nodding, "it has been a rich and rewarding experience for me, and Leslie has come to think of this as her home."

"I also know how much happiness you bring to people who come here," Eunice said.

Roarke regarded her and decided it was time to be frank. "Miss Picard, why don't you tell me what is really bothering you?" he suggested gently.

Eunice's face lost the last of its warmth and filled with concern. "Your next competition," she said.

"The arm-wrestling?" Roarke prompted, and she nodded. "Yes?"

"It's not going to be just another contest," Eunice told him. "My brother means for it to be a fight to the finish. A fight to the death."

Roarke considered this very carefully for a long moment, then focused on her and nodded formally. "I thank you for your warning, Miss Picard."

She smiled. "I just felt you should know. Well, I'd better get back before he wonders what happened to me." She nodded back and walked briskly away; Roarke, now with quite a bit of food for thought, returned to the house and into the study, where Leslie sat by herself still reading the morning paper.

"Are you quite calmed down now from your little frolic?" Roarke asked her dryly.

She shot him a reproachful look. "Just when I was really having fun, you had to go and tell that genie to cancel the snowstorm. I haven't seen snow since I first came here, and it hasn't even gotten below seventy degrees every day. It was great."

Roarke raised an eyebrow. "Had I been aware you were so nostalgic for snow, perhaps I would have sent you on a little visit to Alaska for Christmas last year." Her response to that was a very dirty look, and he grinned. "Do me a favor and come with me to the kitchen so that we can find out when dinner will be served, what with Mana'olana on her vacation." She nodded and put down the paper, following him out.

About five minutes later, Tattoo came in, decked out in a heavy coat, hat, scarf, and boots and carrying a pair of skis. He'd been halfway back to the main house in this getup when the snow had abruptly vanished and Fantasy Island had been restored to its usual tropical splendor; now he was completely perplexed. As he leaned the skis against the front of the desk, Roarke and Leslie came back from the kitchen and stopped in the foyer, both quite surprised at Tattoo's garb.

Tattoo heard their footsteps and turned around. "Boss, what happened to the snow?"

Roarke stared at him oddly and stepped down into the room, Leslie just behind him. "Snow, Tattoo?" he said blankly. "What snow? Here, on Fantasy Island?" He rounded the desk and took his usual seat; Leslie stopped beside Tattoo, eyeing her guardian, certain he was teasing but wondering why she couldn't tell this time. "You must be jesting."

"But boss," protested Tattoo, "don't you remember when it was there? The snow?"

Roarke shot him a look and shook his head at him. "Really, Tattoo," he scoffed.

Tattoo looked distinctly confused for a moment; then his expression changed and he began to pat his forehead. "I don't feel good," he mumbled. "I think I got fever…I think I'm coming down with something." Leslie stared at him, rolled her eyes and whipped off his hat, earning a startled glance from Tattoo.

Roarke, too, looked up in time to catch her action, and cast her a look that finally contained the ocular twinkle she'd learned to look for. Tattoo was clearly oblivious. "Boss, you don't mind if I take two or three days off, do you?" he asked.

"Oh, not at all," Roarke said. "But before you go—" He reached into a drawer and pulled out a notepad, handing it across the desk. "Will you take care of these few small matters for me?"

"All right, boss," Tattoo agreed, picking up the pad without looking at it.

Roarke, beginning to look slightly put out, said deliberately, "Repair gazebo roof collapsed from weight of _snow_ and _ice?"_ Leslie grinned.

Still oblivious, Tattoo grabbed a pen and scribbled this down, muttering as he did so. "Gazebo roof…snow and ice…" Leslie turned away and started to snicker; Roarke cast his gaze to the ceiling and exchanged one swift, highly amused glance with her. Then they both focused on Tattoo, who frowned at what he had written on the pad and then lifted his gaze to meet Roarke's, without moving his head. Roarke started to smile, and so did Tattoo. "Boss…snow and ice?" he said knowingly, grinning. "It really _did_ snow, didn't it?"

"It really did snow, Tattoo, yes!" Roarke concurred, breaking into laughter at last. Tattoo and Leslie laughed with him.

"Boss," Tattoo scolded without much real reproach, still laughing, and ripped the top sheet of paper off the pad. "I'll take care of this right away. Don't worry about a thing." He turned and hurried out of the study, leaving Roarke and Leslie to expend their mirth—which escalated all over again when Leslie pointed at the skis Tattoo had left leaning against the desk and collapsed into a club chair.

"I didn't even know he _had_ skis!" she exclaimed. "Was he planning to make his rounds cross-country or something?"

"So it would seem, child," Roarke said, shaking his head through the laughter. "So it would seem!"

By three o'clock, with Tattoo still out seeing to the repair of the gazebo in question and Leslie making a list of names of guests who had called the main house to complain about the unexpected cold snap, Roarke had had enough time to think about the whole crazy mistake and had managed to work himself up to quite a state. Out of deference to Leslie, he kept his anger under control until Rebecca Walters and Joe came in for their appointment; then he arose and regarded them with a flinty stare. Leslie stopped writing to watch.

"I've always had a soft spot for genies," Roarke told them after a long, silent moment, coming around the desk, "but this time you have extended my patience to the _limit!"_ With the final word, his hand came down on the desk with enough of a crash to send the glass-shaded lamp rocking. Leslie snatched her pad of paper off the desk and reared back, staring wide-eyed at him as if afraid she was next. Roarke caught himself, trying to calm down, but clearly still upset.

Suddenly Rebecca asked with a smile she apparently hoped would mollify her host, "Mr. Roarke…what does all this have to do with my fantasy?"

"Oh." Roarke composed himself and focused on her. "I can only supply the means, Miss Walters. You see, you are to supply the end—the actual fulfillment—of your fantasy."

"Well…I tried," Rebecca said sheepishly, "but there were a couple of mistakes…and, well, you saw what happened. What I mean is…I have only one more wish."

Roarke stared at her. "Only one?"

"One," Joe confirmed.

"Then you must use it carefully—very, very carefully, Miss Walters," Roarke said in a cautionary voice. "Don't you agree, Mr. Aristopholous?"

Joe was staring at Rebecca; she stared back, lifting a finger and deferentially flicking it in Roarke's direction to make the genie respond. Joe turned blankly to Roarke. "Hm?"

Roarke repeated with exaggerated patience, "Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" Joe exclaimed. Roarke nodded firm confirmation and escorted them out. Leslie settled back in her chair and concentrated on her list, looking up only when Roarke came to her and patted her shoulder.

"I apologize for that little show of temper," he said.

"Little?" she echoed, with such a doubtful look that he eyed the ceiling for a very long moment before sighing deeply. Then she giggled, and he looked back at her, shaking his head but finally smiling.

"We'd better pick up Tattoo," he told her. "I'm afraid it's almost time for the next phase of the competition. Suppose you and I change clothing quickly and then be on our way." His face acquired a grim expression; thankfully, Leslie didn't ask, assuming it came from anxiety. He saw no need to tell her what Eunice Picard had confided to him earlier.

When they emerged from the main house, Roarke wore a pure-white tuxedo, its only spot of color provided by a rose in one buttonhole. Leslie, too, was still in white, but this time she was wearing a short-sleeved satin dress with a long straight skirt that reached her ankles, and a pair of matching high heels that had been a recent Christmas gift. She also wore a tennis bracelet that sparkled with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts and topazes on her left wrist. This, too, had been a Christmas gift from Roarke and Tattoo together, and she had decided it would provide just the right touch of color.

"Very good, Leslie," Roarke complimented her and smiled. "You do me proud."

"You look gorgeous, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said a little shyly, and blushed with surprised delight when he offered her his arm. In fact, he went so far as to pick a yellow rose off a nearby bush and carefully remove the thorns before affixing the flower in her hair behind her right ear.

They picked up Tattoo near the gazebo and drove to the Enclave, where a maid let them into the rented Picard mansion and showed them to the ballroom, leaving them to wait for Picard, Eunice and Rothwell. The trio arrived within a minute, and Roarke and Picard greeted each other, coolly but civilly. Roarke then turned to stare at a small rectangular table beside which he, Tattoo and Leslie had been standing, and cast a quizzical look in Picard's direction.

"Oh, that's just the surprise," Picard said. "I thought I might add a little excitement to our contest." He reached for the two red cloth napkins that lay on the table and lifted them to reveal two small open-topped glass boxes—each containing a very large black spider with beige stripes on the legs. Tattoo made a face of revulsion and Leslie gave a gasp, stepping back from the table. Eunice lifted a hand to her mouth.

"These spiders are a very rare breed," Picard said conversationally. "They're from the _Licosa_ family, imported from Tunisia. One bite is almost instantaneous death."

Leslie felt the blood vanish from her face; she looked at Roarke, who simply stood with that same grim expression, regarding Picard with narrowed dark eyes. After a moment he murmured ironically, "Excitement, Mr. Picard…?"

"But the rules are simple," Picard went on. "If you feel you're losing the contest, say 'yield'—and say it before your hand touches the spider." Roarke nodded acknowledgement, and Picard actually chuckled. "Now if you don't wish to compete, you don't have to; you can yield right now."

Roarke stared deliberately at the man and removed his jacket, handing it to Tattoo. "I have no intention of yielding, Mr. Picard," he said flatly, pulling loose his bow tie. Silence reigned as each man rolled up his right sleeve and settled into chairs, one on either side of the table. Roarke glanced at one of the spiders as he took his seat, then up at Picard, who looked back at him with a calmly confident expression. Facing each other, they flexed their fingers, then locked hands. Rothwell wrapped his own hand around them.

"Ready?" he prompted. Two seconds elapsed and he let go—and the battle was on. The silence was nearly tangible, so tense was it; almost immediately Roarke began to lose ground to Picard, and they all watched Roarke's hand descend closer and closer to the deadly spider. Tattoo stood wincing; Leslie had both hands over her mouth, eyes huge and fixed inexorably on the scene. Roarke grimaced and marshaled new strength; his arm began to rise away from the spider, and Tattoo breathed a quiet little sigh of relief.

The seconds began to stretch out. Picard was visibly straining; Roarke, too, showed the magnitude of his effort, perspiring as he forced Picard's hand ever closer to the other spider. Tattoo shot one hasty glance over his shoulder at Leslie; she hadn't moved at all. Eunice began to gnaw anxiously on one knuckle; Rothwell watched impassively.

Picard's hand was millimeters from the spider, which started to crawl towards his violently shaking wrist. Roarke glanced at him once expectantly; the second glance was disbelieving. The third time, he ground out, "Give it up, Mr. Picard."

"No," Picard grunted, a hint of desperation in the sound.

Roarke cast a quick glance at Eunice, who simply stared with an anxious look; he caught sight of Leslie frozen in her statuelike pose before returning his attention to the battle. "You can't win," he warned in an insistent whisper.

"I will," retorted Picard.

Suddenly Roarke said, "Yield," and relaxed the pressure he had been exerting. "I yield." He settled back slightly in his seat, breathing a little hard from his efforts. Eunice looked pained; Leslie stared at Roarke without comprehension. The two men rubbed their aching arm muscles.

"The competition is even," Rothwell said quietly.

Roarke nodded, and Picard stared at him for another long moment before turning and leaving the room with Rothwell at his side. Looking sickened, Eunice followed them several paces behind. Tattoo retrieved Roarke's jacket from a nearby chair where he had laid it and brought it to him. "Boss, you had him beaten."

"Yes, Tattoo," Roarke agreed. "When you think about it, that's enough to know, isn't it?" Eunice, who had overheard, paused at the doorway and smiled, then left. Roarke noted her departure, but turned to Leslie. "Are you all right?"

She shuddered. "I don't know. When it looked like that guy had you down in the beginning, I thought I was going to be sick. Wouldn't they have just loved that."

Roarke chuckled and squeezed her arm, guiding her out the back door of the room. Tattoo stared for a long moment at the nearest spider, then finally blurted, "Yuccch!!" and hurried out in their wake as quickly as he could go.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- February 14, 1982

Tattoo had a string of errands to run, one of which was out to the pineapple plantation; so he enlisted Leslie to be his chauffeur and helper. They left soon after breakfast, and Roarke made several phone calls in regard to a charity ball that was being held that evening at the Picards' rented mansion, while waiting for a couple of appointments.

Around ten or so there came a knock on the door, and a young woman stepped in. "Ah, Miss Walters, please come in," Roarke invited and gestured Rebecca Walters into the study. "Please have a seat, won't you?"

Rebecca stopped him and held up a hand. "Mr. Roarke, I think we should just, uh…lay our cards on the table, okay?"

"By all means, Miss Walters," Roarke agreed amiably.

"It's about Joe," she said.

"Oh?" prompted Roarke.

She nodded. "I suspect that you have him here to help me find a perfect husband, and, well…to tell you the truth, he just isn't cutting it."

"Then you find his services unsatisfactory," said Roarke questioningly.

"Well, I really do have only one more wish. And no progress in sight."

"I see. And you are convinced that he's here because of me."

Rebecca admitted, "Well, I don't really think that he's here by accident. It's just that time keeps passing, and I don't have a perfect husband."

"But you will, Miss Walters," Roarke said calmly, and her smile vanished, replaced by perplexity. Instead there appeared a smile on Roarke's features. "Miss Walters, have you noticed how we are often blind to those things closest to us?"

She shifted her stance so that she faced slightly away, hands on hips, bewilderment and a touch of impatience on her face. "See, I—I really don't know what you mean by that."

"Well, then, perhaps you remember the old saying, _Sometimes we can't see the forest for the trees,"_ he suggested.

"I don't know what you mean by that either," Rebecca said.

"Oh, I think you do, Miss Walters. I think you do," Roarke contradicted quietly. Rebecca, unable to think of anything else to say, started for the French doors, hesitated at the desk and stared at Roarke, who nodded. She looked briefly thoughtful, drummed her fingers on the desk a time or two, and finally left through the shutters.

She had been gone a bare minute when there was another knock on the door, and this time Roarke admitted Eunice Picard. "Have a seat," he offered again, and Eunice, unlike Rebecca, accepted. He took the other club chair and inquired, "What can I do for you?"

Eunice gave him a long critical look before demanding, "Why did you do it?" Roarke tilted his head at her, and she went on: "You could have won the arm-wrestling contest, and Fantasy Island would have been yours legally."

Roarke smiled. "You know why I purposely lost, Miss Picard."

"I'm not sure my brother would have done the same for you," she remarked.

Another smile. "May I remind you that we still have a third contest, that of the spirit." Eunice nodded.

"You know my brother has something very special planned for that."

"Yes," said Roarke. "Now, will you tell me something?"

"If I can," she agreed.

Roarke peered at her in genuine perplexity. "Except for the contests, I understand you've hardly been seen around Fantasy Island since your arrival. Why is that?"

Eunice considered this for a moment, then turned to him and inquired, "Do you have any idea how lonely it can be, growing up in a family with enormous wealth?"

"I can imagine," Roarke said, nodding slightly. "Sometimes the most favored people are the most vulnerable."

"Vulnerability is the story of my life." Eunice got to her feet, sighing, and began to pace the floor. "Especially with men." She turned and eyed Roarke. "Take the two men I married. They never really loved me. Douglas had to pay them off just to get rid of them."

Roarke said, "So now you avoid meeting other men because you're afraid you'll get hurt again…is that it?"

"Men have never been attracted to me," said Eunice matter-of-factly. Roarke frowned as if in protest, but she continued, "They wanted only one thing—the golden key to the family vault—and I'm just not going to go through that again. Ever."

Roarke regarded her with a slight smile before arising and taking her hand. "Miss Picard," he said, leading her to the foyer, "forgive me for being presumptuous, but I believe that your feeling that men are not attracted to you is of your own choosing." He reached up and deliberately removed her oversized glasses. "Self-imposed, to make you feel protected. I would like to try something." Eunice watched him blankly, rubbing her nose where the glasses had rested, while Roarke backed a few steps away from her, lifted his hands and slowly described a circle in the air. Eunice Picard's figure became obscured by golden sparkles for a couple of seconds; when she reappeared, she stood in an elegant silver evening dress. She blinked, sensed something had changed, and looked down at herself in astonishment before turning back to Roarke.

"What happened?" she asked.

Roarke only smiled and gestured at the mirror with one hand; Eunice ventured toward it, and the moment she caught sight of her image, gasped loudly and covered her mouth with one hand. Roarke watched with amusement. "Oh," Eunice blurted, patting her head and then smoothing the skirt, "is this really me, Mr. Roarke?"

"Yes, Miss Picard, it is really you. Do you still feel that you are unattractive to men?" he inquired, still smiling a little.

She turned to face him rather than his image in the mirror, admitting, "I don't know what to think." Back she went to her reflection. "It's gonna take a little getting used to."

"Take all the time you wish," Roarke told her.

Once more Eunice turned to face him. "How did you do it?"

Roarke approached her. "I did nothing that was not already intrinsically yours, Miss Picard, both in the flesh and in the spirit."

She grinned helplessly. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, you could just say that you will honor me tonight by being my date at the ball your brother is hosting," Roarke suggested, returning the grin.

"I'd be delighted to, Mr. Roarke," she replied.

"And I thank you," he responded.

"But first…I'm going to take a nice long walk to convince myself that I'm not dreaming all of this," Eunice added with a laugh, and took one more look in the mirror as if for extra insurance, laughing in wonder at sight of herself while Roarke watched, smiling.

‡ ‡ ‡

The ball was in full swing at the mansion in the Enclave, and Justin Rothwell stood surveying the dancers with a satisfied look. Behind him, a scowling Douglas Picard descended the stairs and paused beside him. "Where's Eunice?"

"Oh, she said something about stopping by to see Mr. Roarke," Rothwell said.

"Oh yes, I'm looking forward to seeing him myself. I want to see the expression on his face when he learns about my little compassionate, unselfish act for the contest of the spirit," Picard said.

Rothwell smiled. "Yes, few people could afford to donate twenty-five million dollars to charity, Mr. Picard."

"Yes, very few. I want to make certain that he concedes victory—and this island—to me." Picard looked and sounded distinctly grim for a man who anticipated victory, but Rothwell had an approving smile on his face.

Within ten minutes Roarke came in with Eunice on his arm, arriving by the open French windows in the ballroom rather than through the front door like so many others had done all evening; the dancing was still going on. Picard, who still stood with Rothwell gazing over his party, caught the movement of their entrance and stared at them. "It's Eunice!" he blurted, astounded.

As they watched, Roarke offered her a hand, and the pair began to dance. In only a couple of minutes people were stepping aside to watch them—Roarke in white tie and tails, as elegant as could be, and Eunice in her silver evening gown, still a little unaccustomed to her new glamour. For the first time the entire weekend, Picard actually smiled. "I haven't seen her this happy in years!"

Impressed, Rothwell remarked, "It would seem those rumors were not unfounded, about Roarke's doing miracles with people."

Picard couldn't stop staring. "Look how…look how _beautiful_ she is!" For quite a while they watched as Roarke and Eunice waltzed gracefully along; finally Picard admitted to Rothwell, "I have to hand it to this Roarke. He's accomplished in a few hours what I haven't been able to do in years. She's just…just beautiful."

The dance ended and all the other guests broke into applause; Roarke and Eunice acknowledged it with smiles, and he gestured her to the refreshment table. Picard and Rothwell met them there, and Picard stared at his sister as Roarke handed her a glass. "Eunice…you look marvelous, just marvelous."

"Oh, Douglas, thank you," she said happily.

Picard remarked, "Mr. Roarke, I don't think I could have been as big a man as you were—I mean about the arm-wrestling. But I am big enough to thank you for the change in my sister."

"Actually, there has been no change, Mr. Picard," Roarke told him. "If you look closely, you'll see she's exactly the same person she was before."

Eunice chuckled. "Just a little touch-up job here and there, right, Mr. Roarke?"

Picard rubbed his temple. "I believe we still have some unfinished business?"

Roarke's smile faded and Eunice lowered her head. "Yes, Mr. Picard, we do."

"According to the rules of the competition, the winner must exhibit a compassionate, unselfish act which surpasses that of his opponent."

Roarke nodded. "Yes," he said quietly.

Picard's expression softened. "Well, there's nothing that I've done, or could do, which can surpass the change in Eunice."

Roarke frowned at him in astonishment and glanced at Eunice, who stared at her brother with something like wonder. Rothwell began to protest, "But…Mr. Picard, your donation—!"

Picard cut him off. "Justin, Justin, please." To Roarke, he said, "He's referring to a small donation I made to charity. It was really nothing." He hesitated and finally looked up. "So what I'm saying, Mr. Roarke, is that I concede. You win." Roarke stared at him, and Picard made a gesture at Rothwell, who removed the ancient deed from his jacket pocket and gave it to Picard. Picard in turn offered it to Roarke. "Fantasy Island is yours to keep."

"Douglas," Eunice murmured, her face glowing with pride.

Roarke, looking slightly overwhelmed, gazed at the deed for a long moment before meeting Picard's gaze. "And I congratulate you, Mr. Picard. It takes a very special quality to be gracious in defeat."

Picard shrugged. "Yes," he mumbled and changed the subject. "May I suggest a toast?" This was met with smiles; Roarke slipped the deed into his own jacket pocket and lifted his glass.

"By all means," he said with a smile.

"To Fantasy Island and all it represents," Picard said.

Roarke smiled. "To Fantasy Island…and to your sister, Mr. Picard."

So did Picard. "Yes. To you, Eunice."

"Thank you, Douglas," Eunice murmured. They all clinked glasses and drank the toast; then Picard gestured to the dance floor, and she laughingly accepted.

Roarke turned to Justin Rothwell and raised his glass. "Mr. Rothwell."

Rothwell returned the gesture. "Mr. Roarke." And they watched the dancing, sipping champagne in a companionable silence.

A few hours later Roarke excused himself and returned to the main house, which was quiet and dark. Though there was no light in Leslie's room, he paused beside her partly open door anyway, looking in on her; and from the faint light shed by the seashell nightlight in the bathroom, he realized she was awake, staring at the canopy over her bed without really seeing anything. "Leslie?"

She bolted right up in bed, eyes huge with alarm. "Mr. Roarke! What happened? Did we…"

He edged into the room and withdrew the deed from his pocket. "Do you recognize this from yesterday?" he asked, handing it to her and turning on her bedside lamp.

Squinting in the light, Leslie peered at the deed and gasped aloud. "It's Mr. Picard's deed!" She looked up, her eyes still wide, her mouth open, as though she dared not hope. "Does this mean we…we won?"

Roarke laughed softly. "Yes, that deed is mine to keep. Mr. Picard conceded the contest, and we will remain right here on Fantasy Island."

"Oh, what a relief!" Leslie cried, leaping off the bed and throwing her arms around him. "I really thought for a while that we were gonna wind up homeless, and I was trying to figure out what I was going to tell my friends." She looked up at him, eyes shining. "Now I can sleep finally. I'm tired, but I was so afraid we'd get kicked off the island after he took it over, I just couldn't get to sleep."

Chuckling, Roarke hugged her. "I haven't yet decided what to do with the deed, but I do know one thing: I certainly won't let it out of my sight. You might say this doubly secures my ownership of the island, and thus you need never again worry about whether you still have a home to come to."

§ § § -- February 15, 1982

The first car on Monday morning brought Rothwell and the Picards, who stepped out to Roarke, Tattoo and a very happy Leslie. Eunice extended her hand. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Roarke. I just wish it didn't have to be goodbye."

"It needn't be," Roarke said. "I look forward to your next visit to Fantasy Island someday."

"I just may take you up on that." Eunice stepped forward and kissed his cheek in gratitude, and that's when Tattoo spoke up.

"Our doors are always open for pretty ladies," he said, making Leslie sigh with amused resignation. Roarke grinned, and from there they made their farewells.

Joe and Rebecca stepped out of the second car and Joe observed, "Well, I never thought I'd see the day, Mr. Roarke. I thought I'd spend the rest of eternity just bobbing around in the ocean." Roarke laughed and shook hands with him; Rebecca Walters had used her final wish to change Joe from a genie into a mortal human being, and they had been married the previous evening in a quiet ceremony shortly before Roarke had left for the Picards' ball.

Rebecca reached into a large plastic bag and withdrew the glass jug in which she and Tattoo had first discovered the former genie. "Joe and I would like to leave this with you," she said, presenting the bottle to Roarke.

Chuckling, he accepted it. "Well, thank you very much." He lifted it to them. _"Salud_ to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Aristopholous." They nodded and went off to board the plane.

By lunchtime at school, Leslie had already been asked ten times why it had snowed on Saturday and had managed to deflect all the queries; but her friends, of course, wouldn't let her off the hook. "A genie!" marveled Myeko when they finally pried the story from her. "How come I can't meet a genie too?" She shook her head and stared at Leslie. "And you didn't think this weekend was going to be wild."

Leslie grinned. "Well, you just never know around here. And I'm just glad we'll still be able to have all those 'wild' experiences."

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

"_Herregud,"_ Christian muttered, blowing out his breath. "What a story…I don't blame you for being worn out when it was over, my Rose. But what happened to that deed? I presume it was proof that this unknown Captain Verdugo of Madrid had been in this part of the world and spent at least a short time on this island."

Roarke laughed and said, "I had the deed framed; it now hangs on the wall directly over the bed in my bedroom. When I become too proud of my own accomplishments on this island, I take a good look at it to remind myself that I was by no means the first to attempt settlement here—merely the more successful."

Christian and Leslie laughed and resettled themselves in their seats. "So how about the business?" Leslie asked. "Did you get the idea right away, or what happened?"

"My question here is, how were you approached?" Christian put in.

"Over the years, various guests have asked me how I came up with the idea for the business and resort," Roarke said. "As I mentioned before, I was asked to keep the identities of the originating entities a secret, and therefore I have merely explained that I was…consulted." He grinned when they looked at each other. "To answer your question, Leslie, no, I was not approached immediately upon my arrival here. At the time of my landing, I was only looking for a sanctuary, as I had been advised to do by my friends in present-day Australia. It had been my hope, from the time I set out from the land of my upbringing, that I could use my powers to help people; but I never had any clear idea of exactly how to do so. That was one of the reasons I traveled so much in my past. Another reason was that I had been told as a child that there were others like us, scattered around the world, and I never forgot that. I had hopes of finding these others. Now, while I didn't necessarily discover my own people—except perhaps unwittingly—I did come across a great many beings that used to be explained as magic and that are now written off as pure myth, stories to tell children at bedtime. Mermaids, leprechauns, faeries, nymphs, gnomes, even trolls."

Leslie leaned forward a little at the word _leprechauns_. "That reminds me of the story Julie once told Frida and me about how her family got its powers," she said. "She said that MacNabb family lore has it that you're the one who mediated the dispute between a bunch of leprechauns and the ancestor who first acquired the family magic."

Roarke grinned. "I spent my fair share of time in Ireland, yes. And I'll admit—for your ears alone—that Julie's 'family lore' is correct. After all, I had to teach Farley MacNabb how to use and control the magic the leprechauns had given him, and in the process he and I became quite good friends. I stayed in touch with some of his descendants through the years, down to the point where I eventually granted Delphine and Julie's parents sanctuary on this very island. I expect eventually I'll be teaching Rory the same thing I taught his very distant maternal ancestor.

"But we digress, of course. I had been here for some fifty years or so before I was approached about the business. During that time I had been trying to help the natives who were already here when I landed. At first I remained hidden; I didn't know the provenance of these people, and I felt it best to get their measure first. But it soon became fairly clear to me that they worked too hard at simply maintaining their lives at sustenance level to have time to worry about strangers. This was true of both the fishing-village inhabitants and the farmers who were there at the time. So, slowly, I began to provide unobtrusive assistance. I saw to it that the fishermen's catch was more abundant, and I used what farming knowledge I had picked up in my travels to help increase the harvests. Of course, I was eventually discovered—I had planned it so, for no man can live entirely alone, even if he should wish it—and I was able to cultivate friendships with the people I was helping.

"It didn't take long before they understood that I had certain abilities they could not explain except through their mythology. It made me very uncomfortable indeed to be cast as some sort of god, but I learned soon enough that I wasn't the first they had regarded in such a manner. That was how I learned of Captain Verdugo's sojourn on the island some centuries before. The orange trees he had helped a native plant were no longer producing fruit, and some of the elders had memories of the taste of oranges. For a short time I was successful in helping them to get the trees to flower and give fruit again, but the sheer age of the original trees worked against us all, and even my abilities couldn't stand up to the ravages of time."

"If the natives thought of you as a god," Christian remarked, "that would explain how you eventually arose to your position as…well, whatever it is they anointed you."

Chuckling, Roarke nodded. "Originally I was appointed tribal chief. Their simple life was appealing to me, and I was more than happy to adopt their ways. I never tried to pass myself off as something I was not; I repeatedly denied being a god, and had to do so for quite some time, until some of the elders passed on from old age and it was demonstrated that I truly was not a god at all. But by that time I had established a presence, and I think the natives appreciated that I was as honest with them as I could be."

"So, then," Christian persisted, "my question again: how were you approached?"

"As I said, I had been here for some fifty years, more or less. I had been 'tribal chief' for quite some time by then, and as it happened, I had become quite naturalized—some might suggest I had 'regressed' to the more basic lifestyle practiced by the natives. I was at peace, calm, happy, undisturbed. I may not have been understood," Roarke said with a slightly rueful little smile, "but I was accepted, at least. It made a welcome change from all the suspicion and the endless witch-hunts of the preceding, and even current, centuries in what was supposedly the 'civilized' world.

"Then one day, for the first time in uncountable years, I saw some of my own people; it was something of a shock at first, and I had to readjust." He smiled again. "I can't give you many details, but suffice it to say that my benefactors spent a good week or more talking me into using my powers for the one thing they felt might best demonstrate to the wider world my wish to help people—using my powers and abilities to bring people's innermost dreams and fantasies to life. I found the whole concept difficult to swallow at first, but my benefactors assured me they would provide me with every object and means needed to set myself up in business and most efficiently utilize my powers.

"It took a great deal of persuasion on their part, and I was difficult to convince. But when they had presented the idea in full, they left me for a suitable period to think it over, and I did…with a vengeance. I had no idea how I was to advertise myself, how such a business could possibly make any money, and most of all, what impact this enterprise would have on this island and its people. It was that latter that particularly worried me. I had no wish to see their way of life disrupted for what was supposedly a superior one, and I realized I could use this as a bargaining chip of sorts.

"So when I finally agreed to the idea, I insisted that the business, and whatever physical attributes were needed to create and maintain it, be situated on the eastern end of the island, where I knew there were no inhabitants. I argued that once I was open for business, the comings and goings of prospective guests would be highly disruptive to the natives; all I would consent to ask from them would be their contributions of seafood to the diets of any visitors. They would be able to make a living yet maintain their own way of life.

"And so it was agreed. I was given the materials and the workers to build a few guest huts, a hotel, and a small house for myself as the basis for the new business. My benefactors discreetly posted advertisements in the richer countries, and eventually I found myself hosting people I normally might not have associated with—but I could see from the beginning that I could use the money they gave me for my services to help not only people, but animals and plants as well." Roarke smiled, watching Leslie's face light up with realization and Christian suddenly smile with understanding. "Yes, that's correct—that's why there are people, flora and fauna here that exist nowhere else on earth. Mostly they came to me because of their near extinction in their native lands; I was entrusted to be caretaker to those few remaining. Somehow, by extension, I was 'promoted', if you will, from caretaker to overseer, and so on up the line, until it was eventually understood by unspoken agreement that I was…well, in charge."

"And thus lord mayor, highest authority, and outright owner," Leslie filled in.

Roarke grinned. "I was even provided with a deed. I was advised early on that I had better declare full sovereignty while the time was ripe, before the entire planet had been explored in full and all national boundaries irrevocably set. I could see that this would happen within the next century or so, and decided it was wise to take that advice. The indigenous inhabitants already looked upon me as their protector, and when they were asked, they supported my claims to the island. And so we became Fantasy Island, sovereign nation."

"Your Majesty," said Christian jokingly and pretended to bow. They burst into laughter and sat back for a moment, refreshing themselves with the beverages Mariki had brought out some time before.

After a while Christian cleared his throat. "Well, then. So here you were, with this fledgling business and a tiny resort, catering to the super-rich of the day, in effect running your own country. If word got around, there must surely have been people who recognized your name, if nothing else. I say this because I've heard stories from Leslie now and then—ghosts and spirits you've helped or battled in the past, not to mention Mephistopheles—and if there were others of your people out there, surely they too would have come to you."

"Strangely, that was the one thing that never happened," Roarke admitted. "I can only suppose that by then the clans had died out, or else those remaining had no wish to draw attention to themselves in even the smallest way. However, otherwise, you're correct: I did begin to acquire something of a reputation in the otherworldly realms that were so quickly being dismissed as the stuff of stories. It just so happens that some of them were familiar to me through my past travels, and I am afraid one of the most notorious ones finally got her chance to confront me before Leslie had been here for two full years."

"That would be…whom?" Christian asked with great interest.

Roarke said, "Leslie, do you remember the weekend you met your friend Maureen?"

Leslie nodded slowly once or twice, then more firmly as the implications of Roarke's question sank in. "All too well." She turned to Christian. "Once Father explained it to me in full, I found myself thinking that he must have really gotten around in his youth. The fantasy in question drove home to me the understanding that he was definitely something more than human, and I think it signaled the day my mind began to open to all the possibilities of this business…not to mention the occasional consequences of some of his past choices in life."

"Some ghost came back to haunt you?" Christian asked in a kidding tone.

"In fact, yes," Roarke said, and Christian looked at him in amazement for a moment.

"You're serious," the prince realized, eyed his wife, and saw her solemn nod. "In that case, by all means, enlighten me. I should know better than to scoff by now, shouldn't I?"

"You certainly should, my love," Leslie agreed with a grin. "It all started on a weekend in mid-January 1980…"


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- January 12, 1980

First to exit the plane was a good-looking dark-haired man, accompanied by a man who made Leslie think of a partying, womanizing perpetual bachelor. "Mr. Danny Collier, a carefree bachelor from Chicago, Illinois," Roarke introduced him.

"What's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo asked the requisite question.

"Mr. Collier wishes to leave Fantasy Island at the end of this weekend married to the woman he loves," Roarke said.

Tattoo brightened. "Oh, that's very simple! Why does he need us?"

Roarke looked amused. "Not as simple as it sounds, my friend. You see, Mr. Collier has been engaged to the same woman for two years now. But every time they have attempted to get married, someone or something has prevented it."

"You mean his marriage has been jinxed?" Tattoo asked.

"So it would appear, my friend."

"I think he needs us, then," Tattoo decided. Over his head Roarke smiled at Leslie, who grinned back. "Boss, who is that with him?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Collier's closest friend and best man, Mr. Ken Jason. They have known each other since childhood. The bride and her entourage will arrive here on Sunday, the day of the wedding."

Tattoo smiled confidently. "Getting them married here on Fantasy Island should be a piece of cake."

"Judge not from appearances, my friend," Roarke warned genially.

"You mean there could be more trouble in store for the bride and groom?" Both Tattoo and Leslie peered at Roarke as Tattoo asked the question, but Roarke only smiled faintly before his expression grew troubled and he stared at the pretty redheaded woman stepping out of the charter plane.

She made an impression on Tattoo as well. "Boss, she—she's beautiful!" he gasped.

"Yes," Roarke murmured. "Miss Lisa Corday, born on January 13, 1950, at precisely midnight." Tattoo, of course, asked what her fantasy was; Leslie stood silent, listening to Roarke's explanation with a growing sense of dread in her gut.

"To rid herself of a recurring and terrifying dream—a nightmare that has grown stronger as she has approached her thirtieth birthday, until now, it drives her with the strength of a compulsion."

"So what has she been compelled to do?" persisted Tattoo.

"To end her nightmares, she knows she must spend the night of her thirtieth birthday in a castle she has never seen." The dread in Leslie's stomach grew exponentially; two weeks ago Roarke had refused to discuss an upcoming fantasy with her when they'd visited a castle that was in the process of being erected, and she knew this was it. Now she was beginning to see why he had warned her not to touch one of its component stones: something evil was associated with them.

"Boss, you look worried," Tattoo remarked in concern.

"I am, Tattoo," Roarke said. "You see, she asked for a particular castle, one that was torn down by fear-crazed mobs in the seventeenth century—a castle that only I know has been painfully reconstructed to the very last detail." He glanced only fleetingly at Leslie, and she began to chew fretfully on her lower lip.

"Boss, that's really scary." Tattoo put her fears into the most basic words.

Roarke nodded slightly, still staring at their newest guest. "Yes, it is, for I fear Miss Corday may be in mortal danger." At this point Lisa Corday stepped onto solid ground and pulled off her sunglasses to get a proper look at her surroundings, beaming.

"You mean, from what can happen in the castle?" Tattoo asked.

"More correctly," Roarke clarified, "from what _happened_ in the castle, nearly four hundred years ago…and from a woman who's waited four hundred years for revenge." On that ominous note he accepted the glass he was offered, raised it in toast and gave his standard greeting, while Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other and tried to rearrange their expressions for the guests' benefit. But that rock in Leslie's stomach wouldn't go away.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie only picked at her lunch, and Tattoo urged her several times to eat. "Come on, you're gonna be helping me with Danny Collier's fantasy," he said. "You're gonna need some energy, and you won't have any if you don't eat."

"I can't," Leslie said and stared plaintively at Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, do you really have to go to that castle and spend the entire night tonight and all day tomorrow there?"

"It's the only way I can be certain nothing happens to our guest, Leslie," Roarke told her patiently. "I have explained this at least twice already since this morning. I know you are worried, but there is nothing else to be done."

"He hasn't left a will," Tattoo contributed, trying to lighten her mood, "so I think that means he knows he's coming back." Leslie stared at him, then shook her head, dropped her fork and abruptly left the table, without another word.

"A particularly sensitive choice of words, Tattoo," Roarke said with annoyed irony. Tattoo, a sheepish look on his face, shrugged apologetically, but shook his head.

"Come on, boss, don't you get it? _ I_ know you'll be back, but I don't think she has any faith in you. She's a complete wreck. She'll be murder to live with tomorrow."

"She's young, she has been through a great deal of tragedy in her life, and she still has not been here a full year yet," Roarke said reprovingly. "And because of that tragedy, she retains a fear of losing everything yet again. There may come a day when you can make 'jokes' like that, but at the moment they simply aren't appropriate."

Tattoo sighed. "Okay, boss, I'm sorry. But we both know she's gotta toughen up sometime." Roarke's expression grew particularly exasperated, and Tattoo threw his hands into the air, belatedly realizing he was just digging himself a deeper hole. "Never mind, never mind. I think I'd better get to the luau area and make sure everything's going okay." Roarke nodded, and Tattoo made himself scarce.

Once Roarke had finished lunch, he found Leslie sitting on the flagstone patio outside the French doors, staring into space. "No more time for dawdling, Leslie," he said briskly. "We have some rounds to make, so come along."

She shrugged listlessly and got up. "Okay, Mr. Roarke."

He relented a little then and put an arm around her shoulders. "Try not to worry, Leslie. It's imperative that I go with Miss Corday tonight, for she can't battle this woman alone. But, if it makes you feel any better, I won't scold you when I return tomorrow evening to find you waiting up for me."

Finally she giggled. "Aw, Mr. Roarke," she groaned, and they both laughed as they crossed the room and departed the house.

Roarke and Leslie joined Tattoo at the clearing where the luau was usually held; there were preparations going on for what was clearly intended to be a private celebration. As they came in, Tattoo was telling a florist, "More flowers, and I want you to spare no expense."

Roarke and Leslie caught up with him. "Well, Tattoo, it looks as though you have everything well in hand."

"Thank you, boss," Tattoo replied, beaming. "But after being jinxed so many times, I wanted Mr. Collier to have a first-class wedding."

"Yes," Roarke agreed, and Leslie nodded.

At that moment a voice called out Roarke's name, and they all turned to see Danny Collier and Ken Jason arriving, surveying the goings-on. Roarke turned to them. "Well, Mr. Collier, Mr. Jason! Checking up on us, are you?"

"Well, you can't blame the groom-to-be for being a little anxious, can you?" Collier said with a slightly sheepish smile.

"What Danny really means," Ken Jason broke in, "is, uh, you see, his fiancée's a perfectionist, and if anything goes wrong, she blows her stack."

"Don't worry," Tattoo assured them. "Nothing's gonna happen, I promise you that."

"Well, I hope so," Jason said, "'cause she's from a very influential family—very wealthy, too."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, the father of the bride is a very important man—in the, uh, steel business, I believe?"

"That's right! And you know what the old boy's giving Danny as a wedding gift? Vice presidency in charge of public relations. Fifty G's a year with stock options. This guy's an operator here!"

Collier, looking mildly exasperated, finally spoke up. "Ken," he said, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "you know who's got a bigger mouth than you?"

"Who?" Jason asked.

"Nobody," Collier replied flatly, and Leslie muffled a giggle behind one hand. The action caught Roarke's attention and he smiled, glad to see her more animated. "Listen, you're making it sound like I'm marrying Sue for her money." Collier turned back to Roarke. "Look, Mr. Roarke…" He offered Roarke a folding chair, and as Roarke seated himself, Collier took another chair and Jason pulled one aside to sit down as well. Leslie and Tattoo stood nearby, listening in. "…I really love Sue," Collier finally continued. "So you gotta make this wedding come off without incident and without accident." He hesitated, then peered earnestly at Roarke. "Look, I'm no fool—but, well, events have conspired to make me look like one. The last time out, I came down with appendicitis on the eve of our wedding. The time before that, I went down to City Hall to get our marriage license—" His fingers snapped. "Fell down the stairs and broke my ankle. Again, no wedding. And _then_—"

Roarke interrupted before the man could get carried away with tales of his wedding mishaps. "Excuse me, Mr. Collier, but has it ever occurred to you that these incidents, or accidents, might have psychological implications? The subconscious mind is very capable of playing bizarre tricks on all of us, you know."

"Wait a minute—are you saying that I'm subconsciously setting myself up for an accident or an illness, just to prevent me from marrying Sue?" Collier asked.

"It's a possibility," Roarke allowed, "if some corner of your mind does feel that you are marrying this girl for her money, and rebels against it."

"Now, I admit that marrying Sue would give me a big edge in the business world, but I love her," Collier said, "and I'll really try to make her happy."

"In that case, I hope events turn out as you wish," Roarke replied with a smile.

"Excuse me, boss, but I've got to take care of Mr. Collier's bachelor's party." Tattoo put in at that point.

"Of course," Roarke said. "Leslie, why don't you go along with him." She nodded.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Tattoo said. "Come on, Leslie, we need to see if the caterers have gotten there yet." They departed.

Collier stood up with interest; Ken Jason was wearing a big grin of anticipation. "Bachelor party?" Collier asked.

"Compliments of the management, Mr. Collier. I took the liberty of inviting several of your male friends who are arriving on the afternoon plane."

"Great!" Collier turned around and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Listen, Ken, do me a favor. Just don't let me get bombed tonight, all right?" Jason nodded and agreed, and Collier turned to Roarke. "Three drinks, and I end up wearing lampshades."

Roarke laughed. "I understand, Mr. Collier. Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me?" With that, he left in Tattoo and Leslie's wake.

As it happened, the caterers hadn't arrived yet; so when Roarke caught up with Tattoo and Leslie, there, they all went together to the main house and brought a waiting Lisa Corday back to a bungalow. They showed her inside; then Tattoo turned to her and smiled brightly. "If you want anything, Miss Corday, all you have to do is whistle." And he demonstrated with a sharp, clear whistle that brought laughter from Roarke, Leslie and Lisa. "Come on, Leslie." She hesitated long enough to stare pleadingly at Roarke, and he smiled and nodded, gesturing for her to follow Tattoo. She sighed, cast a quick smile at Lisa and followed Tattoo out, pulling the door shut behind her.

Lisa turned then and gasped at sight of the main room. "Oh, how nice!" She peered into a tiny atrium filled with tropical plants, then the bedroom, and then turned back to Roarke. "It's just what I expected."

"I am very pleased," Roarke replied graciously, with a smile.

Something on the wall caught Lisa's eye and she paused to stare at it. "That coat of arms…" she began.

"It's of the House of Bathorý," Roarke said.

Lisa went over to stare at it more closely, then said to Roarke, "I've seen it before."

Surprised, Roarke crossed the room to join her in front of the plaque on the wall. "May I ask where?" he inquired.

"In my dreams, I think," Lisa said.

"It belonged to the family of a beautiful woman like the one you described," explained Roarke, "a historical figure. Her name was Elizabeth Bathorý, and she was born in Hungary in 1560. At the age of fifteen, she was married to Count Ferencz Csejthe; he was killed a few years later in a war with the Turks."

"That could have been the tragedy," Lisa suggested.

Roarke hesitated a moment, shook his head. "No. No, the count's death was not her tragedy. She…she fell in love with another man…but her love was doomed."

"How?" asked Lisa.

"Under the count's influence," Roarke told her, "Elizabeth had become fascinated by the powers of black magic, and the fascination became an obsession. The man she loved refused to accept her bizarre beliefs, and left the country."

"What happened to her?"

Roarke, half lost in apparent reverie, came back to the present and focused on Lisa. "She returned to her husband's castle, where she was seized with a morbid fear of growing old, of losing her great beauty. Evil gradually consumed her, mind and body…and—" He caught himself, as if something had occurred to him, and broke eye contact with Lisa.

"Is there more?" she asked softly.

"Yes," Roarke finally admitted with clear reluctance, walking slowly away from her but seeing nothing. "Yes. Elizabeth put into practice ancient satanic beliefs to stay eternally young and beautiful. She became widely known as the Blood Countess, and she was much feared and hated…so much so that it is said that the French word _abattoir_, meaning 'slaughterhouse', was derived from her name."

Lisa stared at him in distress. "That can't be the one I dreamed about," she said, sounding a little startled. "She was a grand lady; she was loved and adored." She gave a soft, nervous chuckle. Roarke nodded and smiled a little.

"I sincerely hope you are right, Miss Corday." They both turned to stare at the coat of arms on the wall. "We will go to the castle tonight."

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke returned to the main house long enough to have a rather late supper; Tattoo and Leslie sat with him, although they didn't eat, since they would be partaking of whatever was available at Danny Collier's bachelors' party. Roarke and Tattoo discussed a number of inconsequential matters in an attempt to calm Leslie, who said very little but simply sat watching them and listening to their conversation.

Roarke eventually finished and pushed back his chair. "Well, it's time for me to go," he said. "Tattoo, I trust you will have everything under control, and you can handle any problems that may arise." Tattoo nodded, beaming; it did him good to know that Roarke had such faith in him. "I realize that you'll have to have Leslie with you at Mr. Collier's party, but I don't think she will be any trouble."

Leslie blinked at him, surprised. "I can't stay here at the house? I mean, what good would it be for me to go? I'll probably be the only female there."

"Not necessarily," Tattoo said. "The caterers have some women working for them."

"In any case," Roarke said, "I don't think it advisable for you to be here alone most of the night. Such parties can last into the small hours, and Tattoo will have to be there until at least midnight. That's a little too long for you to be here unsupervised. You might take a book with you, or whatever school assignments you may have."

"My homework's done for the weekend," Leslie said, "and I forgot to check any books out of the school library to read. I'm going to be so bored."

"Oh, come on," Tattoo said. "Quit being a wet blanket, Leslie. You gotta be there, and that's that. Maybe I can take a break every now and then and be sure you're all right, but I have to see to it that everything goes smoothly." She shrugged, and he turned to Roarke. "I guess we'll see you sometime tomorrow, boss."

"Yes," said Roarke. "I'm not sure exactly when, but I hope not to be too late. Leslie, if Tattoo needs any assistance with Mr. Collier's fantasy, I trust he can rely on you."

She sat up straight, astonished. "You mean…I could sort of be Tattoo's assistant?"

"That's a good way to look at it," said Tattoo cheerfully.

"Yes, indeed," Roarke agreed with a smile. "Very well, then. Good night, you two, and try to enjoy yourselves." They nodded, and both watched him cross the porch, get into a station wagon and drive away.

By the time Tattoo was ready to call it a night, Leslie had managed to make a new friend—Maureen Tomai, the daughter of the catering company's owner, who usually worked for her mother during weekends and many evenings. With Mrs. Tomai's agreement, Tattoo ensconced the two girls at a table set well away from the main site of the party, gave them a deck of cards and suggested they eat before the bulk of the partygoers arrived. They prudently took his advice, then spent several hours playing cards before they got bored and found themselves watching the party—including a giant, hollow artificial wedding cake from the top of which burst a lovely, sweet-faced young blonde in a skimpy blue bikini. Maureen found the whole thing patently sexist, and Leslie couldn't blame her; but that, she supposed, was what guys wanted in a bachelors' party. She thought Danny Collier and the blonde had taken an unusual liking to each other, but she'd seen for herself that Collier was rip-roaring drunk, despite his request of his friend Ken Jason. He'd been wandering around the party for the better part of the night with his head adorned by a lampshade that Leslie figured must have come from his bungalow.

As the caterers began to break down the tables and the leftover food to depart, Tattoo turned to Leslie once Maureen left to help out. "I think this party has enough momentum to go on without us. Come on, Leslie, there's a car waiting for us. Let's go home."

"What time is it?" Leslie asked, gathering up the deck of cards and following Tattoo away from the party, down the gently sloping hill to the idling station wagon.

Tattoo checked his watch. "Almost midnight. I'll be in the main house tonight, so you won't be alone—I have a cot set up in the time-travel room." He yawned loudly.

Midnight, Leslie thought, and wondered uneasily if Roarke was all right.

‡ ‡ ‡

At just about that point, Roarke was pulling up in front of the huge stone castle with Lisa Corday. "These are the castle grounds, Miss Corday," he said.

"I can almost feel the presence of evil here, Mr. Roarke," she said.

"Yes, so do I," Roarke murmured. He stopped the car in front of a wide set of stone steps leading into a portico from which the castle could be entered through one of two doorways. Pausing to help Lisa Corday step out of the car, he glanced toward a battlement just in time to catch a glimpse of a female figure staring down at them, before the figure vanished into apparent thin air.

"Castle Csejthe," he said. "It has been reconstructed exactly as it was four hundred years ago—exactly."

Lisa stared at it, her face full of wonder. "Oh, Mr. Roarke," she breathed, "it's like coming home!" And she started up the steps at an eager trot. Roarke stared after her for a second before following her up the steps and escorting her inside.

A voice from the battlement drifted through the air as the strange figure faded in and out of view. _"I've waited four hundred years for this moment,"_ it breathed. _"Come…come…"_

Roarke and Lisa found themselves in a sparsely furnished drawing room with antique furniture and an enormous marble fireplace, in which a fire was already burning and masses of candles were lit as if waiting for their arrival. There were a few chairs scattered around and a massive sideboard holding yet another candlestick; but that was all, other than a grandfather clock. Roarke brought in a candle that he had lit from a sconce on one wall; Lisa still looked excited. "I had some of the rooms prepared for you, Miss Corday," Roarke said. Lisa smiled and wandered toward the fireplace, gazing around in fascination at the trappings.

Then the clock began to chime, and they both turned to see that it was midnight on the thirteenth of January. Lisa froze and stared at the clock for a moment; a gust of wind sluiced through the room and blew out the candle Roarke held. He frowned at it and laid it on the sideboard.

"It's my birthday," Lisa remarked, sauntering up to stand in front of him.

"Yes," Roarke replied quietly. "Congratulations." He kissed Lisa's cheek; she smiled strangely, her head fell forward, and the cold breeze picked up, rattling a copy of the same coat of arms Lisa had seen in her bungalow. Roarke stared at her, his frown deepening.

She lifted her head then; she looked like Lisa, but he could see in her eyes that there was someone else. He watched as she smiled seductively at him, ran both hands through her hair, moistened her lips, and abruptly kissed him. Roarke stood and bore it in stoic silence, but after just a moment he deliberately removed her arms from around his neck and pushed her back a step or two. She eyed him mockingly. "Are you afraid, Mr. Roarke?" she taunted.

"Yes, I am," he said. "For you."

Lisa Corday—or whoever was controlling her—threw her head back and burst out laughing, releasing Roarke and scampering behind a chair. A movement caught his eye and he grabbed a vase that was skidding all by itself across the sideboard before it fell off and shattered. Lisa noticed, loosed a mocking giggle and then ran out of the room, laughing all the while. Roarke put the vase back on the table and gave chase, calling her name repeatedly and insisting she come back. Once he passed an alcove where she crouched hidden, and she popped out when he had gone by and fled in the opposite direction, still laughing madly. It was so easy to lose herself in the crazy, mazelike corridors…

The disembodied voice seemed to fill the castle. _"Come, Elizabeth, come…we are one now!"_ Still running, perhaps fleeing now, Lisa heard it and looked back over her shoulder, just as Roarke stepped out of a another hallway and caught her. She shrieked and struggled in his grasp.

"Miss Corday, Miss Corday! It's me!" Roarke assured her insistently; she stopped and gaped wild-eyed at him, and he caught her face between his hands, peering into her eyes, trying to reach her. "It's all right!" She began to sob, and he drew her close and hugged her as he might have done with Leslie, trying to calm her. "It's all right now. It's okay." But somewhere inside, he wondered how long it would be all right, and what would happen when it wasn't.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- January 13, 1980

Sunday morning dawned sunny as always; by the time Leslie came downstairs a little before nine, Tattoo had been up for almost an hour and was engrossed in some accounting at Roarke's desk. As she stepped into the room from the staircase, she saw him cover a huge yawn with one hand and giggled. "Didn't you sleep okay last night?" she asked him.

"Oh, I slept all right…when they let me sleep at all," Tattoo grumbled. _"Zut alors_, I need some coffee. Where's Mana'olana?"

"Probably in the kitchen," Leslie said logically, grinning at the look Tattoo shot her. "What do you mean, when they let you sleep? Who're 'they'?"

"I was at a wedding," Tattoo said, yawning again. "A spur-of-the-moment thing at three in the morning last night. Danny Collier got married to the blonde girl who jumped out of the cake." Leslie's mouth dropped open, and he shrugged. "Well, it looked like love at first sight to me."

"But he was drunk!" she exclaimed. "I might be only fourteen, but I know enough to know that people do stupid things when they're drunk. My moron of a father got drunk a few times and almost wrecked the car at least twice. Mom even had to bail him out of jail once." She noticed that Tattoo was staring at her, and made a face. "But that was my dumb father. I hate to even call him that, it's too good for him. Look…why did Mr. Collier come wake you up? He had enough friends around to be witnesses if he needed them."

"I don't know," Tattoo said irritably. "Do me a favor and see if Mana'olana has any coffee ready." She giggled softly and went off to the kitchen, returning a moment later.

"Sorry, Tattoo," she said. "No one's there right now. Mana'olana's probably loading up breakfast carts. I'd make you some coffee, except I don't know how."

Tattoo smiled. "That's sweet of you, Leslie," he said. "Well, sit down here and keep me company. Maybe you can wake me up when I fall asleep over these figures." She laughed and obligingly took her usual chair beside Roarke's desk.

No sooner had she settled in than the door banged open and the selfsame Danny Collier charged in, dressed but barefooted, his hair still tousled from sleep. "Where's Mr. Roarke?" he demanded frantically, waving a sheet of paper in the air.

Tattoo and Leslie, startled, looked at each other, and Tattoo quickly gathered his composure. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Look," Collier almost shouted. "I woke up with a strange woman in my bed, and she claims her name's Christy Collier and that she's my wife. And she stuck this in my hand to prove it." He thrust the document in Tattoo's face. "My fantasy's just been blown all to hell. I have to get this thing annulled—what'll Sue say?" He paced the room like a caged tiger, running his hands through his already messy hair.

Tattoo studied the page, with Leslie peering at it over his arm, trying to make out what it said. She did manage to note the two signatures at the bottom at least. Finally Tattoo handed the document back and announced briskly, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Collier, but Mr. Roarke cannot annul your wedding. It's impossible."

"But this is his island! He's got to!" Collier protested.

"On what grounds?" asked Tattoo.

Collier leaned over the front of the desk. "On the grounds that, uh, I had too many Harvey Wallbangers and I blacked out. Tattoo, I don't even remember meeting this girl!" Leslie stared at him in amazement.

Tattoo, too, peered at him skeptically. "That's not what you said when you woke me up last night at three a.m. to ask me to be your best man."

Collier stared, then blurted, "Well, I lied." Leslie studied him from under her bangs as he paced toward the shuttered windows and paused there, rubbing his chin in frustration. "I mean, I must've." He turned back to Tattoo. "Listen, my fiancée is arriving here now, so I gotta get _un_married in a big fat hurry. Now, Mr. Roarke _is_ empowered to grant annulments, isn't he?"

"But of course," Tattoo replied, then delivered the kicker. "But—only if the marriage wasn't consummated." Leslie gave him a perplexed look; he glanced back, sighed quietly to himself and refocused on Collier, whose face looked blank. "Was the marriage consummated?" Tattoo questioned gently.

Collier hesitated, frowned, plainly endeavoring to jog his alcohol-clouded memory, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Tattoo eyed him. "You're not so sure, are you?"

Collier glanced at him, then looked away, finally shaking his head barely perceptibly. Tattoo drew in a breath and sat back. "Well, I'm very sorry, Mr. Collier. Under the circumstances, I cannot help you. Besides, my boss is not here."

"Well, where is he?" Collier demanded, aghast.

"Oh, he's taking care of a fantasy for a guest," Tattoo answered, peering at his column of figures as if just noticing something wrong with them. Still, he didn't miss the way Leslie compressed her lips and let her head fall forward.

"Oh, great," Collier muttered, stalking away and throwing his hands into the air. "That's…that's just great." He stopped in the middle of the room, whirled around and came back to the desk, leaning over to glare at Tattoo in frustration. "Would you mind telling me now how I'm gonna marry Sue Raines when she gets here?"

Tattoo paused, looked up, studied him and observed sagely, "With great difficulty, Mr. Collier. Great difficulty."

There was clearly nothing more that Collier could say to that, and he finally left the house looking absolutely thwarted. Leslie watched him go, then eyed Tattoo and asked, "Okay, what's _consummated_ mean?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "You mean you don't know?"

"I'm fourteen, Tattoo," she reminded him pointedly.

"So what?" he retorted, and she narrowed her eyes. He sighed. "Go look it up."

She did so, and he knew when she found the word because she reared back in her seat a little and stared wide-eyed at the page. "Well, sheesh," she said. "But I can't see any reason why a marriage can't be annulled even after it's consummated."

"Because it's the law," Tattoo said curtly. Scowling, he went back to his accounting, and she slapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf.

"I think I'll go see if Mana'olana's back yet," she said and headed for the kitchen.

"Leslie, wait! Would you get me some…" Tattoo sighed as she disappeared down the hallway and muttered, "Coffee. My kingdom for a cup of coffee."

‡ ‡ ‡

The bedroom was quiet, softly lit by the early-afternoon sunshine slanting through the open window. A soft breeze, the first one in some hours, lifted the lacy curtains and caused a dozing Roarke to stir in his chair. He glanced around, bringing himself instantly awake, and arose to stretch his muscles, moving to the end of the huge canopied bed where Lisa Corday had lain sleeping for most of the previous night and all the way through lunch that day. He glanced at her, then saw her stir and start to come around. He rounded one of the bedposts and settled down on the edge of the mattress, murmuring, "Miss Corday."

She blinked and focused on him. "What time is it?" she asked, noticing the daylight.

"Afternoon," Roarke said. "I thought you'd sleep the day away."

She rolled her head partly to the side, only now registering her surroundings. "Last night," she began, lifting her head, then sitting up and staring at Roarke. "Last night…it wasn't a dream."

Roarke shook his head solemnly. "There are things you must know," he said. "This…'compulsion' that brought you here…I'm afraid it's much more than that."

"But what?" Lisa asked, bewildered. "And how could you know?"

"The 'what'," said Roarke slowly, "is Elizabeth Bathorý. She made a pact with the powers of darkness that on the day when her genetic duplicate reached her thirtieth birthday—the age at which Elizabeth died—Elizabeth would have the power to possess her body and live again as a mortal." As he said the words _genetic duplicate_, he gestured at Lisa.

She let out a skeptical, yet frightened, snort. "Surely you don't believe that!" But Roarke only stared at her, and she realized he was completely serious. Her smile faded and she gave a small, panicked cry, leaping off the bed and pacing around it, half crossing her arms as if she were cold. "If what you say is true, she…she's trying to possess my body. I'm nothing but a monster!"

"You are Lisa Corday," Roarke said firmly. "You can fight her. You can defeat her, as I did."

She stared at him incredulously. "You?" Realization slowly dawned across her features. "You're the one she swore vengeance on! Can't we get out of here?" Panic took control of her and she ran to the door, trying to turn the knob and rattling it when she found it locked. "Go back to your place?"

Roarke watched her wrestle with the knob and said flatly, "The power Elizabeth possesses reached halfway around the world to deliver you to Fantasy Island. There is no escape, Miss Corday." She turned and stared at him in bleak despair, and he looked away. "I've always known that one day she and I would meet again." He refocused on her and went to speak directly to her. "I wish it were just Elizabeth and I, but you are her gateway—her only opening into the world."

"Oh, my God!" Lisa moaned, dropping her face into her hands in horror, then lifting her gaze back to his in desperation. "What can I do?" she wailed. "Tell me what I can do!"

"Her power over you will end at midnight tonight," Roarke explained. "Once the day of your birthday is over, so is her opportunity. Until then, you must help me fight her with all your strength." She stared at him, close to tears. "I will be with you at all times. Remember that I have prepared for this—that whatever happens, in the end I will use it against her." He watched her struggle to maintain her composure and pull herself together. "Are you ready?" She gave him an uncertain look, and he urged, "Trust me…trust me." She sighed deeply and swallowed hard, and he nodded again and guided her out of the room, easily defeating the locked doorknob.

They spent the better part of an hour or so carefully exploring the castle's hallways, making explicit note of the most expedient escape routes when the time came, memorizing the necessary twists and turns that would take them to safety at the crucial moment. They thought, from time to time, that they heard taunting whispers; for Roarke they merely brushed at the edge of consciousness, but Lisa obviously heard them very clearly. Now and then she'd stop and stare at nothing, her eyes going blank and unfocused for a minute or so, a look of terror creeping gradually over her features. Each time, Roarke reached out and grasped her shoulder, bringing her back to herself, and every time she shuddered, looked cautiously relieved and kept very close pace with him as they moved on through the castle.

But Roarke knew they couldn't put off confronting Elizabeth, and he decided the best thing to do was to invite an encounter now, to give Lisa a chance to build and hone her ability to fight off Elizabeth's spirit. He guided Lisa through a couple or three more corridors till he reached one of the few prepared rooms, then very carefully eased the door open, catching in his peripheral the sight of Lisa's wide-eyed, balky look and stance while the door's creaking cracked the eerie silence. The sound set off a peculiar squeaking from inside the room, and Lisa caught her breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before finally daring a very wary peek over Roarke's shoulder into the room's interior.

It was a bedroom, which must once have been beautifully appointed, but now seemed more like a tomb. The only furniture was a heavy canopy bed, which along with its worn hangings was liberally laced with cobwebs that sagged from their coating of dust. A mouse sat on the bedclothes—the source of the squeaking they had heard.

Quietly Roarke said, "This was Elizabeth's prison for the last years of her life." He moved slowly into the room, leaving a squeamish Lisa standing in the doorway clutching the jamb. "Her brother ruled the entire region; and after Elizabeth's crimes were discovered, he ruthlessly executed all those in her service." As if reassured by this, Lisa finally ventured into the room, an anxious expression on her face, but her eyes scanning the walls, windows and floor. "But," Roarke went on, "since she had royal blood, he was forbidden to execute her; so he imprisoned her in this room for the rest of her life. These doors were permanently sealed." He indicated the door through which they had just entered and another at the side of the room, which might have led to another chamber, servants' quarters, a closet…who knew?

Then he noticed something overhead and let his gaze be drawn upward. "During the first year of her imprisonment, she was still so beautiful that the workman who lowered her food through that trap door—" he indicated a square hole in the ceiling— "would crouch up there for hours…staring at her." His voice drifted into a whisper, and his mind conjured up an image of the woman he still remembered from that ever-so-long-ago sojourn in Hungary…

Suddenly Lisa shrieked, and he yanked his head sharply around to see her standing there, her face slack with pure horror, one hand outstretched toward the bed. She began to back away towards the door, as if trying to ward something off. "I see her," she gasped, so terrified she could barely speak. "I…I see her!" For just a moment Roarke thought he caught a ghostly glimpse of an emaciated corpse slowly rising from the mattress, and he even just heard the tantalizing whisper: "Lisa…Lisa…"

Roarke started for her, suddenly unsure that confronting Elizabeth had been the right thing to do after all. "We must leave this room, Miss Corday," he said quietly. She stepped all too willingly back into the hall, and he glanced behind him once, as if he couldn't help himself; but all he saw there was the lone mouse nosing through the dust-crusted bedspread.

Then a gusty breath from Lisa made him turn back just in time to see her lift her lowered head with an expression of furious hatred. She loosed a loud growl of rage and bodily shoved Roarke back into the room with all she had in her, then slammed the door. Too late Roarke sprang for it, caught himself and entreated, "Fight her, Lisa!" On the other side, he heard the woman's sob as she battled the crazed spirit trying to take her over…and then a thud as the bolt slid home, locking him in. "You can defeat her," he whispered, more from hope than anything else just now. "You can…"

The sobs died out, replaced by a woman's maniacal laughter, even as Roarke gathered his calm, stepped back from the door and narrowed his eyes, concentrating carefully on the doorknob and its deadbolt on the other side. After a few seconds the bolt snapped out of its housing and snapped back, and Roarke opened the door, looking anxiously up the hallway in the direction from which the laughter emanated. He was going to have to track down Lisa Corday before Elizabeth figured out the way to make her transformation permanent.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie hadn't eaten much lunch, and Tattoo was growing just a little exasperated with her. Trying to hide it and hoping to get her mind off Roarke, he brought her over to the pool, where they happened to spot Danny Collier and Ken Jason sitting at an umbrella-shaded table over glasses of ginger ale. As they approached, Leslie overheard Collier gripe, "There must've been some way to stop me from marrying her."

"There was," Jason remarked with an oily grin, "but I didn't have a fifty-caliber machine gun handy. Listen, believe me, Dan, we were all too bombed to stop anything, so don't worry about it, huh?"

Collier glared at him and mocked disgustedly, " 'Don't worry about it'!" Leslie watched him drop his head into his hands in dejection.

Tattoo paused between their chairs, looking as if he hadn't heard a word they'd said. "Hello, gentlemen," he greeted them expansively. Collier didn't respond, but Jason beamed. He looked friendly enough, but something about him repelled Leslie on an elemental level.

"Tattoo, I gotta tell you something," Jason said, sounding impressed. "When it comes to throwing parties, you and Mr. Roarke get my vote every time."

"Thank you, Mr. Jason," said Tattoo, smiling acknowledgement and then shifting his attention to Collier. "By the way, are the newlyweds getting along?"

Collier abruptly lifted his head and scowled at Tattoo; Leslie thought he must still be angry at Tattoo's inability to produce Roarke for the annulment Collier wanted. "No, we're not," the young man snarled. "I'm gonna marry Sue Raines, and nothing—including Christy—is gonna get in my way."

Tattoo eyed him. "In that case, you better do something fast," he advised dryly. "Your fiancée just arrived by private jet."

Collier sat up in instant alarm. "You mean she's here right now?" Tattoo glanced at Leslie, and she nodded silently at Collier., who turned to his friend. "Kenny, what'm I gonna do?"

Jason sat back, looking remarkably unruffled. "Well, if it was up to me, I'd, uh, kill Christy in cold blood, marry Sue and grab up the vice-presidency with stock options." Shocked, Leslie glared at him, her eyes blazing with disgust. Danny Collier actually called this snake his best friend?

Collier groaned in distress. "How did I get into this mess?"

"How're you gonna get _out_ of it?" Tattoo retorted.

"By doing whatever it takes to get rid of Christy," said Jason. "Right, Danny? How's that sound?"

Collier looked at him, obviously out of his element. "Yeah…I guess so."

"Don't you think that's a strong statement?" Tattoo demanded insistently. "You don't mean it, do you?"

"Sure he means it," Jason said immediately. "He knows what he's doin'! He's an intelligent guy, he's very ambitious, does what he has to do. Right, Danny?"

Danny glanced from him to Tattoo to Leslie, then back at Tattoo, as if searching for help they couldn't give him, and finally said with some defiance, "Yeah—right." He lifted his glass.

Tattoo's face filled with horror and he looked disbelievingly back and forth between the two men. Behind him, Leslie's revolted shock got out of her control and she exploded at Ken Jason, "You _jerk!!"_ That got her one very quick, very startled look from Tattoo before he recovered enough to grab her hand and tug her forcibly along after him. Ken Jason's self-satisfied chuckles drifted through the air after them, infuriating her that much more; she stomped along beside Tattoo in a roiling wrath.

"I _hate_ that guy!" she railed. "Did you _hear_ him? Do you believe what he said? I've never heard anyone say such horrible things in my life! What kind of lousy rotten friend is he anyway? And why in the world would Mr. Collier ever listen to that…that _idiot_ carrying on like that?" She went on in this vein for a few minutes while Tattoo, who seemed to be only half listening, strode slightly ahead of her.

Finally he interrupted Leslie's diatribe as they were nearing the main house. "That's enough, Leslie," he said. "There's no point in carrying on about it now. I know, I know," he forestalled her when she started to protest. "I agree with you, Ken Jason is a jerk. But we can't do anything about it. It's out of our hands, and whatever happens to Mr. Collier is entirely up to him. Come on back to the house, I gotta finish that accounting for the boss."

Leslie, bored and antsy all at once, remained in the study only a few minutes before deciding she needed some fresh air. "I'm going to sit on the porch," she told Tattoo.

"Okay, but don't go anywhere," Tattoo said, his primary attention on his work. "I'll be out in about an hour and we'll go have dinner someplace."

"All right," Leslie agreed and slipped out the door, meandering to the end of the porch and settling on the top step. For some time she watched people go by, waving at a few who recognized her as Roarke's ward, and eventually began to relax in the sun.

Then a small red jeep pulled up in front of the house and an officer on the island police force, headquartered in Amberville, got out and approached her. Leslie sat up straight and stared at him, wondering if she should call for Tattoo.

"Miss Leslie," the policeman greeted her, without smiling.

"Yes, officer," she said, nodding a bit warily.

"Have you seen Mr. Daniel Collier?" he asked her.

Leslie gripped the edge of the step she sat on. "A little while ago," she admitted. "Uh…why are you looking for him?"

"His wife's disappeared," the policeman replied, and Leslie's eyes went huge with shock. "I understand he made some threatening remarks about getting rid of her."

Overwhelmed, she stared at the law officer, torn between confirmation and trying to explain about Ken Jason. Just then Tattoo came out the door, calling her name, and she twisted around on the step. "Tattoo! This policeman's asking about Mr. Collier," she told him in a rush, more than glad to turn the whole problem over to him.

Tattoo looked at her oddly, then at the policeman, who asked him the same question he had put to Leslie. "Yes, we saw him at the pool," Tattoo said deliberately, "and…there were remarks like that made."

"But Tattoo, it was—" Leslie began.

"I know," he cut her off before she could finish. "That's not important. You know what happened." He explained everything they had heard to the policeman, who took notes, thanked them both and drove off.

"Tattoo," Leslie wailed in protest.

He shook his head. "Leslie, it doesn't matter that Ken Jason's the one who said those things. The point is that Danny Collier didn't argue with him, don't you see? He agreed with everything Mr. Jason said. And that's enough to implicate him." She stared at him, stunned, and he nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. "I'm sorry, Leslie, but that's the way it is. Come on now, we'd better have something to eat."

They entered the study after their dinner at the restaurant just in time for Tattoo to answer the ringing telephone. "Yes? Oh, Mr. Collier. Well, all right, we'll be there." He hung up and turned to Leslie. "Feel up to a trip to Amberville?"

A driver dropped them off in the little town and they made their way into the jailhouse; the policeman who had asked Leslie and Tattoo about Danny Collier was there, but when they came in he was summoned out on a call and left hurriedly. Collier leaned forward when he was gone and said to Tattoo, "Can you get me out of here?"

"Don't have the authority," Tattoo informed him crisply. "You know why they took you in, don't you?"

"But the idea of me killing Christy is preposterous! I was even getting to like her," Collier muttered. Leslie rolled her eyes.

Tattoo turned to him and reminded him, "But you did agree that killing Christy would be a good idea."

"Look, Tattoo, you gotta help me," Collier pleaded. "I can't go through life having people think I murdered Christy."

"Look on the bright side," Tattoo offered ironically. "If you didn't really kill Christy, well, your life wouldn't be worth anything anyway."

Collier stared at him for a moment, then glanced aside, stricken abruptly with a thought. "Wait a minute! They can't convict me without a _corpus delicti_, right?"

"Oh sure they can," Tattoo told him. "They do it all the time. Remember, you're the one with a very strong motive. You said that you'd do anything to get rid of Christy."

Collier sighed and gazed at the wall as if he'd given up, and Tattoo decided the subject had been exhausted. "Come on, Leslie, let's go," he said quietly, and she followed him out without having spoken a single word the entire time.

"Leslie?" she heard Collier's voice, and halted abruptly in the doorway to stare at him. It was the first time he'd actually addressed her all weekend.

"What?" she asked guardedly.

He smiled sheepishly, looking forlorn. "You were right about Kenny. He really is a jerk," Collier said, sighing deeply. "For all the good it does me now to realize it."

She smiled faintly. Maybe there was hope for this guy after all. "Good luck, Mr. Collier," she said shyly, then ducked out the door before Tattoo could call after her.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- January 13. 1980

Voices…echoes and cries of Lisa Corday's own voice, one wailing brokenly for help and for mercy, the other seductive and inviting, insisting over and over again that she was Elizabeth. Lisa, confused and uncertain, half her mind occupied by the encroaching specter of the countess, entered a nearly empty room and circled an old-fashioned dressmaker's form in the middle of the floor, wondering absurdly where the dress was that it must have held. _"Yes,"_ the seductive voice encouraged her, _"you are beautiful, Elizabeth! Look!"_ Lisa turned sharply and stared at the door in the back corner of the room, from where the voice seemed to be emanating. _"Yes!…"_ The mocking laughter sounded again.

"No!" Lisa wailed desperately, hugging herself as though this would block Elizabeth's spirit from intruding on her. At the sound of her voice, the door opened and a woman emerged.

Elizabeth Bathorý could indeed have been Lisa Corday's identical twin. She was dressed in elaborate sixteenth-century garb—the dress that probably belonged on the form Lisa had seen—and had an entourage following her, all zombie-like with blank faces and unfocused eyes. Elizabeth regally turned her head, saw Lisa and came to stand in front of her, eyes bright with anticipation.

"_Lisa, oh, at last,"_ she breathed. Lisa, fighting for control of her fear and her own body and mind, stared as if mesmerized at the other woman, slowly backing off; Elizabeth leaned in and coaxed her, advancing as Lisa retreated. _"We are one now, Elizabeth. You are Elizabeth!"_ Lisa protested, but to no avail…and the voice began to repeat its last three words in a hypnotic whisper, advancing slowly and inexorably, driving Lisa back mentally as well as physically. Finally Lisa blanked out and there was only Elizabeth, occupying Lisa Corday's corporeal form. _"I have now taken possession of your soul…"_

That was when Roarke appeared in the doorway behind her; he said not a word, but she sensed his presence and turned to smile triumphantly at him. "Too late, Roarke," she said. "I've won."

"Not yet, Elizabeth," Roarke replied calmly. "Not yet."

"Am I not beautiful?" Elizabeth inquired, coming to him and sliding her hands up over his shoulders. He nodded faintly. "Am I not alive?" Another nod; then her face changed expression as she leaned into him. "Have you forgotten how it was between us?" she hissed.

"I forget nothing," Roarke said softly. "It is you who forgets."

"I've won," Elizabeth reiterated smugly.

Roarke stood his ground but leaned away from her, just perceptibly. "Your eagerness has betrayed you, Elizabeth. The final possession must take place in the room where you died. This is not that room."

Elizabeth's smug countenance vanished into one of stunned surprise; then she tried to slip past Roarke, but he caught her and held on firmly as she struggled to pull loose, her head thrashing back and forth in her attempts to break his hold on her. "You cannot move me, Elizabeth," he warned. She searched his face, but saw only a cool, unwavering stare. Frustrated, Elizabeth retreated, and Lisa moaned and collapsed to the floor.

Slowly Roarke followed her down and knelt beside her, lifting her into a sitting position. "Lisa," he said softly, pulling her close as she started to cry a little. "Lisa…"

"I knew something was happening," Lisa moaned. "I tried to stop her—" here she threw herself back and seized Roarke's sleeve in a death grip— "but I couldn't do anything!" Her voice dropped to an exhausted whisper and she repeated helplessly, "I couldn't do anything."

"I know," Roarke replied with total understanding, laying her head on his shoulder and stroking her hair. "Oh, I know, I know."

‡ ‡ ‡

"Bedtime for you, Leslie," Tattoo announced briskly shortly before ten. It had been an unsettled evening at best for Leslie; half of her had been wondering what was going to happen to Danny Collier and whether Christy was really dead—and if so, who'd really killed her—and the other half had been wishing there had been some way for Roarke to contact them during the weekend and let them know he was all right. The waiting was driving her mad, and now here was Tattoo sending her off to bed. Didn't he realize there was no way on earth she could possibly sleep?

"Mr. Roarke said he wouldn't mind if I stayed up waiting for him," she told Tattoo.

Tattoo stilled, slowly pivoted to look at her, then smiled knowingly and shook his head. "Don't even try it," he warned good-naturedly. "You've got school tomorrow, you know."

"Well, you can make me go to bed," Leslie told him, "but you can't make me sleep." With that parting shot, she went upstairs. To tell the truth, she was pretty tired from her worrying over both fantasies, and even if she couldn't actually sleep, getting into nightclothes and relaxing in bed would feel good. She slowly went through all the usual bedtime rituals, opened her window and slipped into bed, turning out the light and listening to a night crier in the near distance. Something in her had always seemed to identify with this elusive nocturnal bird, as if it, like she, had lost everything and was mourning_. Don't let it happen again,_ Leslie thought. _Please, not again._

Across the island, Roarke was just about to play his trump card. "She has no choice but to try again, you understand that," he said to Lisa, standing outside the door to one final room he'd had prepared.

"When?" Lisa asked. She seemed calm, but it could have been exhaustion from all her battles with Elizabeth. Whatever the case, Roarke was glad it would soon be over; he too was tired.

"Well, remember what I told you earlier: her power over you ends at midnight. It won't be long now." He double-checked his gold pocket watch; they had about five more minutes before the hour and the end of Lisa's birthday.

"Please help me," she said suddenly, catching his attention as he replaced the watch. "Please." He nodded, silent but reassuring, and then reached for the door.

He let her in first before entering the room himself and closing the door firmly behind him. The interior looked rather like a wine cellar; there were racks around the walls, even some very dusty bottles. However, more than anything else, there were candles: huge round free-standing candelabras, V-shaped racks, sconces, all holding long, thin white tapers. Every single one of them was lit. There was a small altar in the back of the room, dominated by a stark wooden cross painted gold.

"When Elizabeth was near death from her own madness, they brought her here to die," Roarke explained. "But the priest would not administer the last rites; she died without the cross, without light."

"I feel safer here," Lisa said, studying the room around her.

"You will be safe only after the bell has rung twelve times," replied Roarke quietly.

She turned then, wandered very slowly around the room, still gazing around as if waiting for something to happen. Neither of them made a sound. Lisa circled one of the big candelabras, glanced at the cross as if for reassurance, then went to one of the candles and stared into it as if mesmerized. Roarke watched her carefully.

Lisa's head began to sway slightly, and this time Roarke heard the hypnotic whisper as clearly as Lisa did, as if from the end of a long tunnel: _"You are Elizabeth…"_ over and over. The candle flame stretched toward the ceiling as if fed with an extra burst of oxygen. _"You are Elizabeth."_ The young woman turned around then to face Roarke; he could see in her eyes that she was indeed Elizabeth.

"Roarke," she said.

"Hello, Elizabeth," he returned.

"By bringing her here, you've given me the victory." It sounded almost as though she were thanking him for having done her some great favor.

Roarke eyed her. "Have I?" he inquired.

She drifted toward him. "There's only you and me. The person known as Lisa Corday no longer exists." Roarke's gaze strayed toward the altar, and she snapped, "Look at me!" He did as she ordered, though his expression was impossible to read; he maintained perfect calm and control. "I'm your love," Elizabeth said, "and you're mine…"

"You can't turn back the years of your own life, Elizabeth," said Roarke, "let alone the four centuries you have waited for this."

"And you waited for me," she reminded him.

"Yes," he admitted in a whisper.

"Then the victory is ours!" she cried, and so saying, kissed Roarke hard. Yet he stood silently, without moving or responding, as though he were only a statue; and after a moment this registered on her so that she pulled back to stare up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Did you think I would come into this room unprepared?" he asked deliberately.

"You mean the cross, the candles?" she hissed, frustration blooming anew on her face. "Turn the one upside down, darken the other and they will work as well for my master?" She whipped away from Roarke and stalked towards the standing candelabra, beginning to laugh that insane laugh again, although there seemed to be less fervor in it.

"Elizabeth," Roarke said, and when she didn't react, he snapped it: "Elizabeth! You died in this room four hundred years ago, without light, without the cross, without blessing. When I restored this castle, I had this room…_sanctified."_

Elizabeth gasped loudly and wheeled away for the door, intending to escape the room; but when she grasped the handle, it burned her hand and she yanked it away, gaping at him in shock and rage. "What have you done??"

"I have brought you love again, Elizabeth," Roarke said. "Memories of sweet nights long ago, of a young girl and a young man in love…of red wine, laughter, kisses, hopes, new dreams…don't you remember?"

"I remember screams—of dying girls!" Elizabeth flung at him. "I remember horror, and red blood—_that's_ what I remember!"

"The room is sanctified for you, Elizabeth," Roarke told her earnestly.

Elizabeth threw her head back and screamed, "Noooooo!" She wailed the word over and over, throwing out her arms and knocking candles out of their holders in a frenzy. The cold wind rose again and blew out every flame in the room.

"You have lost her, Elizabeth. Set her free," Roarke urged, over Elizabeth's wails.

"No!" Elizabeth shouted one final time and seemed to huddle into herself for a moment; then she reached out and grabbed something, and Roarke saw Lisa Corday stumble aside and collapse to the floor as if Elizabeth had thrown her there. Roarke rushed for her before Elizabeth could do her any more harm; the breeze, meantime, became a steady, gusty wind that stirred everything in the room and blew loose objects around them. "What have you done to me, Roarke?" Elizabeth screamed, drawing out Roarke's name into one long note of despair before releasing one last protesting sob. "Nooooooo!!…"

Roarke hurriedly pulled Lisa to her feet and pushed her out the door, then paused to stare in spite of himself as Lisa fled down the hallway. The wind had risen to gale force now, and the cross toppled over and crashed onto the table over which it had stood. Roarke yanked the door shut and rushed after Lisa, who had stopped at the head of a flight of stairs, waiting for him. "We must get out of here before she kills us—this is our last chance to survive." Alarm registered in Lisa's face and she streaked out ahead of him, down the previously memorized turns and twists in the corridors, while all the way along, chandeliers plummeted from the ceilings, statues and plaques and paintings crashed down from the walls, and furniture slid into their path as if alive, in an attempt to block their exit.

They had to go through the same room in which they had first entered the castle, and it was a veritable obstacle course; every chair and table Roarke and Lisa dodged skidded over the floor before them, and he had to keep pushing things out of their way. Somehow they made it through and out the door, all but flying down the front steps of the castle and catching themselves up short against the car that still sat where Roarke had parked it just about twenty-four hours before. Still clutching Lisa's arm, Roarke twisted around just in time to see the Bathorý coat of arms fly off the wall in the entry, sail down the steps and clatter onto the pavement at their feet—Elizabeth's last attempt to kill them both.

Roarke glared at the plaque, concentrating hard on it, still shielding Lisa, and a moment later it burst into flames. Lisa peered over his shoulder at it, eyes still wide, reflecting the flames; Roarke finally, slowly, allowed himself to relax, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Something seemed to brush the edge of his mind, and he opened his eyes again, gazing into the star-studded sky. "It was more than a chapel…it was a gateway to the stars," he murmured, unheeding as to whether Lisa heard him or was even listening. "Goodbye, Elizabeth."

"Goodbye, Roarke," he heard her voice respond, calm with quiet gratitude. "Now I am free."

§ § § -- January 14, 1980

At the plane dock the next morning, Lisa Corday was the first to arrive; Roarke helped her out of the car, and Tattoo said wistfully, "Miss Corday, you never whistled…you know, for more flowers or something."

Roarke smiled at him. "Perhaps another time, Tattoo."

Lisa looked at Roarke and admitted, "I think I've had enough fantasy to last me a lifetime." Roarke nodded in understanding, and she turned to Tattoo, then Leslie, and bid them goodbye. They replied in kind, and she looked at Roarke and said quietly, "Goodbye, Mr. Roarke. Thank you."

"Goodbye…Miss Corday," Roarke replied, and they knew what he meant when he put gentle emphasis on her name. It could so easily have been Elizabeth Bathorý who had taken ultimate control. They watched Lisa Corday walk quietly to the plane.

The other car pulled up then, bearing Danny and Christy Collier, and Roarke greeted the pair; Collier replied for them both, then turned to Tattoo. "Say, Tattoo, whatever happened to my old buddy Ken Jason?"

"Oh," said Tattoo, "he left by private jet with your ex-fiancée and her father." He glanced sidelong at Leslie, who rolled her eyes knowingly, only to see Danny Collier nod at her and grin back. Roarke chuckled.

"Well, Mr. Collier, did we or did we not fulfill your fantasy?" he inquired.

"Oh, you more than fulfilled my fantasy, Mr. Roarke," Collier told him. "You see, what it came down to was whether or not I wanted to stay married for love, or get divorced and marry for money."

"And Danny chose me and love," added Christy, beaming.

Their hosts smiled. "Well," Roarke said, "good luck and my best wishes for a happy lifetime together."

"From us, too," Leslie put in, and Tattoo nodded. They all made their farewells and waved after the departing guests.

"Can't say I'm surprised about Ken Jason," Leslie observed with a distinctly sour expression as the plane taxied out to the lagoon preparatory to takeoff and they waited for the car to pick them up. "It sounds just like something he would do."

"I realize you thought the man was an oily lounge lizard," Roarke said, managing to sound as if he had placed the last two words into quotation marks, "but really, Leslie, to express your true opinion of him to his face—! Tattoo told me what happened yesterday."

Leslie turned quite red and made a face. "Mr. Roarke, it was totally lost on him," she protested and gave Tattoo an accusing look. "I bet you forgot to tell him that when I called that jerk a jerk, it just made him laugh."

"She's right, boss, he did," Tattoo admitted with a shrug.

"But still…" Roarke sighed loudly, rolled his eyes and shook his head—and that's when Leslie realized he was teasing.

"Well, you see, the insult rolled off him, as the saying goes, like water off a duck's back," Leslie said and smiled slyly, just a little. "So just like a duck's feathers, he really _was_ 'oily'." Roarke and Tattoo both stared at her for a moment; then Tattoo loosed a groan and Roarke began to laugh quite heartily, hugging Leslie as the car drew up to them.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

"That," Christian observed with a faint smile, "sounds like another exhausting weekend for you, my darling."

"It was," Leslie agreed with a soft sigh. "Actually, I've had a lot of those." Roarke let out a laugh at that and reached across the table to pat her knee.

"So what precisely happened to this Sue Raines and the, uh, jerk?" Christian inquired. "I presume they were eventually married, and had the usual high-society sort of marriage, in which they produced an heir or two for the company, cheated rampantly on each other, spent money as if it were water, and looked down on those they felt were beneath them."

"Judging from the personality traits Ken Jason exhibited, I wouldn't be surprised," said Leslie. "But in fact we never did find out whether he and Sue Raines clicked enough to get that far. On the other hand, about three years after the Colliers got married here, we had a Christmas card from them showing off their new baby."

Christian grinned at that, and they took another short break to refresh themselves. Then he shifted position, stretching his leg muscles, and said, "I suppose it's time for my next question. You mentioned that you started out with a few huts for the guests, a hotel, and a small building for yourself. From that description, I take it things were pretty rustic around here for a while. When did you have the main house built, and the guest bungalows, among other amenities?"

"The bungalows came first," Roarke told him, "before this house. The original building that I lived in for some time was then remodeled, and is now the Japanese teahouse. But I waited until the early 1920s to have this house constructed."

"Lack of funds?" Leslie asked.

"Not entirely. My business got off to a slow start, but within ten years I was doing well enough to replace the huts with grander accommodations for my guests. In those days, I charged a great deal of money to grant fantasies. Some might think I was driven by greed, but I had great plans for this island, not just as a resort but, more importantly, as a sanctuary for endangered living things. And of course, executing such plans costs money. So for a good four decades or more, my guests were exclusively of the very wealthy upper class. And yes, Christian, I had the more-than-occasional member of royalty here—in fact, once I upgraded from huts to bungalows, much of Europe's royalty began to frequent the island, taking entire summers off to spend weeks at a time here."

Christian looked intrigued. "I wonder if my great-great grandfather might have been among them!"

"I don't recall that any of your direct ancestors, that is to say those in line for the throne, ever came here," Roarke said with a twinkle in his eyes, "but on three or four occasions I had as a guest your great-great grandfather's younger sister, Princess Dorotea, along with her husband, children and grandchildren."

"A small world it is, all right," Christian murmured, chuckling. "Well, perhaps you were gaining a reputation as much for being a very luxurious and expensive vacation spot as for the true business you were in."

"Even royals have fantasies, Christian," said Roarke with a smile, "and I'm sure you know that full well. For that matter, it seems my daughter fulfilled yours."

"Mine…?" Christian began blankly.

"Was it not your wish, through most of your first four decades of life, to fall in love? You may not have specifically requested it of me as a fantasy to grant, but it happened nonetheless, when you fell in love with Leslie. Surely that qualifies."

Christian conceded with good grace, smiling and nodding a couple of times, and then looking at Leslie. "Perhaps that should have convinced me that anything is possible here, if I could fall in love when I fully believed I couldn't. Whatever you did to me, my darling, I have to thank you for it." He leaned over and kissed her softly, and Leslie smiled, seeing that certain light in his eyes that told her they'd be making love later that night.

"In any case," Roarke said after a moment, "I felt it best to put as much money as I could back into the business. I had a particular image to live up to, I had employees to pay, and there were plans to carry out. I can remember any number of times when someone I had met in my previous travels, or more usually their descendants, contacted me begging me to save some dying species of plant or animal. And this may shock you, Christian, but it was none other than Count Lorenzo LiSciola who saw to it that the last few unicorns he knew of had been rounded up and sent here to this island, where they could live in peace."

"It _is_ a shock," Christian admitted. "I had always thought the LiSciolas were out only for their own advancement and comfort. But perhaps I merely knew the wrong count."

Roarke laughed. "I'm afraid you did. Lorenzo was the current count's predecessor, the one who wished only to help your family. I knew him fairly well, though in the latter centuries of his life, only through correspondence. The disease that was ravaging Marina at the time you were married to her is the same one that killed Lorenzo and put the current count in his position. Lorenzo was a kindhearted man who wished only the best for others, and I'm sure he would have been greatly saddened not only by his son's actions, but by the effects that amakarna had on your father, brother and grandfathers, as well as your nieces."

"Forgive me, but it's difficult to picture," Christian said. "I knew only the current count. It makes you wonder why the two were so different."

"That's a question I can't answer, unfortunately," Roarke said. "To get back to the subject at hand, I was content enough in that little hut. Perhaps I had grown too accustomed to the natives' way of living that I had adopted after I came here. But there came a day early in the twentieth century when a longtime friend who is now deceased visited me here and asked me why I was living in such primitive conditions when I could easily afford something far better.

"I explained my reasons to him, and he heard me out; then he smiled and told me that I not only had to maintain the image of my resort, but of myself as well. 'You must understand,' he said, 'it's difficult to reconcile this luxurious, top-of-the-line resort, catering solely to the filthy rich, with its owner and operator, who lives in a drab little hut that his guests would hardly deem fit for an animal. After all, even their dogs live in kennels that are more spacious than that primitive little hovel you have here. I fear you'd lose a great deal of credibility if they knew how you truly live, behind the scenes.'

"I told him there was no real need—after all, I conducted all my business with my fantasizing guests in their bungalows. I merely set up appointments and visited them there. My friend told me that simply wouldn't do. If I were to gain enough cachet to make the business become profitable enough to carry out all the work I wished to do, he said, I must present a far more dignified front than that. 'Build yourself a house, Roarke,' he said to me. 'Make it a grand showplace, so that your guests know beyond all doubt that they're dealing with an equal at the very least, if not a superior. I know it goes against your sensibilities, but money talks, and that's the only language most of these people will listen to. So you'd better measure up.' And that's what convinced me. Ultimately it took little enough persuasion, for I was well acquainted with the eccentricities of my guests."

"Undoubtedly," said Christian dryly, making Leslie laugh. "So who designed this place, you, or someone else?"

"The idea was entirely mine, but I did a great deal of research before I settled on this house plan. I realized early on that the Queen Anne style appealed to me, and I made a list of the things I wanted in a house. It was built exactly as you see it now, with periodic minor improvements and remodeling over the decades. But the decorative touches were always mine alone…that is, until Leslie moved into the upstairs bedroom and made it her own." They laughed. "Still, I didn't regret that—I was glad to see her turn it into her own private retreat, for it meant that she was settling in here and feeling at home."

Another short pause ensued; then Leslie spoke up. "You said you told Elizabeth Bathorý that you forget nothing. In that case, you must remember the very first fantasy you ever granted. What was it, and who had it?"

Roarke grinned. "Now there's a tale to be told, indeed. Perhaps you two had better make yourselves comfortable."


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- October 12, 1871

He had been wondering for a few weeks now if those advertisements his benefactors had placed for him had really had any effect. Since construction of the six bungalows had been completed back in June, his little cleared-out space on this island had been quiet, and he'd begun to see the tentative return of some of the more skittish wildlife that had been displaced when the initial tree-cutting had begun as far back as January. The hotel was still undergoing its finishing touches; when it was done there would be thirty-five rooms and a small restaurant, the latter of which was already open and was his usual choice of dining spot in the evenings.

A few enterprising young men, desperate for work, had taken ships for Australia out of California and found jobs here when the vessels stopped for provisions. A little post office was already handling whatever incoming mail he got; and after some threats and skirmishes between some of the newcomers and the natives, a police station and jail had been built and put into operation. The Californians had nailed together some rudimentary huts to live in; perhaps ten had braved the long ocean voyage, and three of those had brought their wives and children along. One of them was a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy named Yasuo Ichino, who had lost his entire family in an earthquake not too long after their arrival in California and who had decided to throw his lot in with those coming to what was now considered Roarke's island. Yasuo was wiry, resourceful, quick-witted, and very good with plants; his English was limited, but he and Roarke were able to communicate well enough that Roarke gave the boy a job as gardener, tending to the newly planted papaya and mango trees around the hotel.

Roarke sat silently in the restaurant now, reading a month-old newspaper that had come in the weekly mail, delivered by steamer. There was actually a small stack of them from European countries and the eastern United States, along with one from India, where many of Queen Victoria's subjects resided. Every paper contained an advertisement for his brand-new resort, touting it as "the ultimate getaway for the very rich!" Only in small print across the bottom of each ad could one also see the line, "Would you like to live out your fondest, innermost dream? Here on Fantasy Island, you can!"

_Fantasy Island,_ Roarke thought, staring at the words in the ad from the _London Times._ One of his benefactors must have come up with that. _Fantasy Island. Do they truly think anyone in this strange day and age will take advantage of my true reason for opening this resort? How can they be so certain that this will really get off the ground?_ At least he knew he wouldn't be run off his island. Somehow those same benefactors had seen to it that he received worldwide recognition of his sovereign status once it was declared. Maybe everyone just figured the place was so remote and difficult to get to that it wasn't worth the bother to try to annex it. That was fine with him; the world had taught him over and over again that his kind were not welcome among them, and seemed to be less so as time marched on.

He noticed then that there was someone approaching his table at a run, and looked up to see one of his burly young native employees. They were primarily the children of the farmers across the island, who had the foresight to see that the farming ventures were slowly failing and wanted a more secure future. "Mr. Roarke," the young man burst out as soon as he caught Roarke's eye. "You have your first guests!"

Very surprised, Roarke stared at him and put the paper aside. "Indeed? Where are they now, Tuko?"

"At the dock," the young man told him. "They came in on this week's mail steamer."

"I see." Roarke stood up then, carefully buttoned the jacket of the white cotton-and-silk suit that had been made especially for him in Paris, and cleared his throat. "Very well, take me to them, and be sure that bungalow two is ready to receive them."

"Right away, Mr. Roarke," the young man replied and led him out the door.

The only mode of transportation around the island was bipedal, so it took him some thirty minutes to reach the long wooden pier that had been erected for the steamer and its weekly supply and mail stops. He felt peculiarly intruded upon for some reason when he saw the three figures waiting for him at the end of the dock, peering at the rutted dirt lane as if it were crawling with snakes. "Welcome," he said simply. "My name is Roarke."

The man looked up and brightened slightly. "So you're the owner of this place. We had begun to wonder if such a person even existed." He spoke in a clipped, upper-crust British accent and was dressed in high fashion, his suit made of the most expensive fabrics available. "I am Cedric Atherton, twelfth duke of Huntsmore; this is my wife Cordelia, and our daughter, Sophronia."

"Your Grace," Roarke said and inclined his head. He might not have a title, as these people did, but he had his own country, which was more than they could say. He intended to be as gracious a host as he could in his admittedly primitive surroundings, but on the other hand, he certainly wasn't going to let them tromp all over him. "We have lodgings ready for you and your wife and daughter. If you'll please follow me?"

"Are you saying we're to walk?" the girl asked, looking thoroughly shocked. "There's no carriage or palanquin?"

"Oh, Sophronia," said the duchess, scowling at her. "The advert clearly warned that there are no amenities here. I see no evidence that your feet have ceased to work, so you'd better make use of them now, or you'll be standing here for the duration of our stay." She and the duke stepped off the wooden planking of the pier onto the lane and fell in beside Roarke, who very carefully hid his amusement. He'd have these people's measure soon enough; he was in no hurry.

"Forgive me that I have so little to offer at this time," Roarke said apologetically as they neared the group of bungalows. "I'm afraid you caught me unawares. In fact, you three good people are the first guests I have had since the resort opened."

"Well, I think that's a fine distinction!" the duke remarked, sounding surprisingly cheerful. "The inaugural guests, eh, Cordelia? This should suit our sense of adventure simply smashingly. After all, my good sir, that's the very reason we left our estate in Hampshire and sailed to India." He slanted a sudden sidelong look at Sophronia and added in a dire tone, "Or at least it was one of them."

"Oh?" responded Roarke conversationally.

"Quite," the duchess said with a nod. She drew in a deep breath, glancing back at Sophronia, whose attention was entirely taken up by mincing along the lane and holding her skirt up so high that the hem exposed the tops of her white kidskin ankle boots. "Dear Lord, next thing you know that child's limbs will be in full view," she muttered despite herself before forcing her attention back to Roarke. "You see, my good sir, Cedric and I are here for more than a mere adventure. We…we have a fantasy."

Roarke had to tamp down his own amazement. He hadn't really believed anyone would actually come to him for that particular purpose; he'd expected to be strictly a high-end vacation spot. "Well," he said after a moment's recovery, "in that case, I shall give you a chance to make yourselves comfortable, and I will return to your bungalow in one hour so that we may discuss your fantasy."

The duke and duchess readily agreed, and the remainder of their walk to the bungalow was taken up by small talk, punctuated by impressed comments on the tropical flora from Cedric and Cordelia. So far, Roarke thought with increasing hope, they seemed to be quite taken with his island. If things worked out well with them, they might spread the word, and soon he could really call this a business.

In just less than an hour, he reappeared at his guests' bungalow, which in fact was little more than a whitewashed two-room hut with an attached outhouse, and knocked on the door. "Come in," he heard the duchess call from within, and let himself inside. His benefactors had suggested he utilize his powers to make certain that at least the guest accommodations were acceptable to his rich visitors, and he had seen to it that while the huts looked fairly primitive on the outside, they were well appointed inside, with the latest designs in Victorian furnishings, damask draperies at the windows, Persian carpets on the floors. Some of his artist friends in France and the Netherlands had been more than happy to provide examples of their work, and in this particular cabin hung a canvas he had bought for a generous sum from his struggling young friend Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

"This is splendid, Mr. Roarke, simply splendid," Duke Atherton said enthusiastically, sweeping his hand in the air to indicate the main room.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Roarke said with a smile. "I hope you've found your accommodations to be satisfying also, Duchess?"

"Absolutely," she trilled, beaming. "As lovely as anything in our own home." Her face fell. "I regret to confess that Sophronia was less than polite about her opinion, with which I shall not aggrieve you."

Roarke grinned in spite of himself. "Is she here now?"

"No," said the duke, "she decided that she preferred to frequent the nearest stretch of sand. Quite dreadful really, this idea she has of crisping her skin in the sun like a Christmas goose, but we deemed it best not to object. For you see, our fantasy, Cordelia's and mine, concerns Sophronia."

"I see," said Roarke, waiting for more.

"Do have a seat, my good man," the duke urged, gesturing at a large wing-backed chair upholstered in red satin. "This may take some time."

Roarke took the proffered chair and waited till his guests had settled themselves in nearby similar chairs. "May I have anything brought to you?" he inquired.

"Perhaps later," said the duke, waving a dismissive hand. "At the moment this takes precedence. I shall get right down to business, Mr. Roarke. Sophronia has no sense of adventure whatsoever. She is our only child, seventeen years old, and her whole life long she has known naught but the best we could give her."

"Unfortunately, that's what she expects now as her due," the duchess broke in. "I don't begrudge her that attitude, but I daresay she doesn't appreciate all the advantages that can be bought with the wealth she was born into. She complains when she hasn't the best that is available. Oh dear, Mr. Roarke, you should have heard her lamentations when we informed her that we were coming here. Such dreadful weeping and wailing! The child is an utter hothouse flower."

"Worse, she's far too passive," said the duke, rolling his eyes. "Once she is assured she is getting the best of whatever is being offered, she merely sits there and accepts it. She has no mind of her own, not at all. Whatever is handed her, she takes it. Whatever decision is made for her or about her, she agrees with it. She has no backbone and no capacity to think, and I'm afraid I'm terribly disappointed in her…terribly. No child of Cedric Atherton should behave in such a languid, unprotesting manner."

"She even agreed to the marriage Cedric's dear mother arranged for her," the duchess said, leaning forward in her chair with an earnestly horrified expression on her face. "The son of a prominent banker in the city. Homer Ulysses Cotherwaite." She closed her eyes and shuddered as she said the name. The duke harrumphed; Roarke released the smallest huff of amusement.

"What precisely is wrong with the young man?" he asked.

"Nothing," the duke said, and backtracked at Roarke's surprised look. "Well, at least, nothing immediately obvious. But he's…" Atherton hesitated, clearly searching for the perfect descriptive word, and finally gave up and shook his head.

"He simpers, Mr. Roarke. Minces. Holds his head so high in the air I daresay he can't see an inch in front of him. Turns into a sheer puddle at the mere sight of Sophronia. Calls her the most ridiculous pet names it's ever been my misfortune to overhear. And he…blinks. Constantly. Endlessly." The duchess groaned and hid her face in her hands, shaking her head. "That she finds him fit to be her husband is a concept I cannot possibly fathom."

"He blinks?" Roarke repeated, his amusement barely under his control.

"In the most annoying girlish manner," said the duke in a revolted voice. "Cordelia, my dear, do show him, will you?"

"Thus," said the duchess, and proceeded to flutter her eyelashes at Roarke at double speed. Roarke raised his eyebrows, squelched a smile and shifted a bit in his chair.

"You see, at any rate, Mr. Roarke…what we want you to do is to find out what our girl is really made of. We ourselves, Cordelia and I, have all intentions of relaxing here, giving ourselves a chance to catch up on all the reading we haven't been able to do. The monsoons on our estate in India, you know. Flooded the place out. The restoration work was perfectly horrid. But all that's behind us now, and we've earned this holiday. Sophronia, on the other hand, needs some toughening up. I sometimes think someone secretly switched our infant for another when she was born. I fear that if she's married to that horrendous young twit, she'll do naught but lie in chaises letting servants feed her sweets, while Cotherwaite takes total control of her very life."

Roarke thought about the request for a moment. "In what way, exactly, do you feel that she needs…'toughening up'?" he inquired politely.

"She doesn't think for herself, as we mentioned," the duke said, "and she doesn't seem to have any special desires. She wants everything done for her. I believe she expects to be protected and coddled for the remainder of her days. Can't you arrange something, Roarke, so that she has her mettle tested? I daresay if she fails said test, she'll hardly be an Atherton, at which point I may as well throw her to Cotherwaite and let the pieces fall where they might. Their children are likely to be pantywaists as well." He shuddered.

"And we certainly couldn't have that." The duchess looked genuinely revolted. "No, I beg you, Mr. Roarke, please, save our daughter from herself, never mind that horrid Cotherwaite. We should be eternally grateful if you can do so. We are prepared to pay you fifty thousand pounds for the favor."

Roarke blocked out the images of the things he could do for the people of his island with that sort of money. "I shall do my utmost," he said sincerely and arose. "If you good people will excuse me, I'll leave you to your reading and relaxation. Our restaurant is open, so that whenever you are hungry, you may come and request a meal."

"Excellent, excellent!" the duke said, patting his belly, which made a small but discernible lump under the tailored vest and jacket. "We'll look forward to it. Thank you ever so much, my good man, and good day."

Roarke retreated to the little hut he had built with the help of some natives and considered the problem. He wasn't altogether sure what he'd expected from guests with fantasies, but this certainly wasn't it. Providing a sheltered, passive seventeen-year-old girl with a backbone?

And then he smiled to himself. He took pains to keep track of the daily goings-on around his island, and he was pretty sure he had the perfect solution. He need do no more than point Sophronia Atherton in the proper direction, and the rest should take care of itself without much effort. He left the hut once more, with a suggestion in mind.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- October 12, 1871

"A walk?" Sophronia asked, blinking at him from her supine position atop a veritable carpet of palm fronds that she (or more likely some hapless passing native) had laid out on the sand for her. "Have you even no horses here, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke brought forth all his charm. "Why, surely you've heard that walks are good for the constitution, Miss Atherton!" he said, smiling broadly. "I understand that you're quite interested in exotic flowers, and we have a great many species on this island."

Sophronia stared at him. "I never mentioned I was interested in flowers."

"Didn't you? Surely you said something…well, perhaps it was your dear mother," said Roarke with a dismissive smile. "Whatever the case, I should like nothing better than to show off some of our special flora. Perhaps it can be arranged for you to take a bush or two home with you."

Sophronia dipped her elaborately coiffed golden head in passive approval. "Then by all means, Mr. Roarke." She raised a hand in a perfunctory gesture that told Roarke she was accustomed to an automatic response. He grasped it and pulled her one-handed to her feet; she looked at him a little oddly, but said nothing. He offered an arm, but she shook her head. "I am an engaged woman, my good sir."

"So I am told," Roarke replied, falling into step beside her and leading her toward a still-new trail that wound through some fairly dense, but colorful and relatively safe, jungle before reaching its end not too far from a stream that drained into the fishing grounds that most of the natives frequented. It would be close to an hour's walk, and if he had his timing right, he should be leading Sophronia straight into her parents' fantasy for her.

He drew Sophronia out a little bit along the way, accidentally hitting the jackpot when he asked idly about Homer Ulysses Cotherwaite. "He is very fond of me," the girl said with a vapid little smile. "He is well off and will be able to support me in the grandest style. I shall have silks and furs and precious gems for the asking, and perhaps if he remembers my birthday faithfully each year, in a few years' time I shall consent to bear his child—why, after all, he must have an heir, must he not?"

"Of course, of course," Roarke agreed.

"Dear Grandmamma picked him out for me. She knows a good man when she sees one, of that I have no doubt whatsoever. Why, he presented me with the loveliest little nosegay the first time he called upon me, and he is most inventive with compliments and endearments. He shall always love me, and I shall be content."

"Merely content?" Roarke couldn't resist asking. Maybe it was the romantic in him, but he couldn't see much joy in that sort of union. "Not happy?"

"Is contentment such a bad thing, then?" Sophronia asked uncertainly. "Surely I don't ask so much…do you think so, then, Mr. Roarke?"

"Oh, no, no, not at all, Miss Atherton," Roarke assured her. To the contrary, he didn't think she asked for enough; but he didn't say so.

"I'm so glad," said Sophronia, looking relieved. "My old nursemaid has always said that contentment is her great goal in life, and that if one is content, one should never want for more. Oh, my goodness, Mr. Roarke, what a lovely specimen. What is it called?"

Well, Roarke considered as their walk continued, maybe the girl's parents were right after all. She seemed happy enough to settle for the lot her elders had chosen for her life. He did have to wonder exactly how much of this was due to the duke and duchess' personal disdain for Homer Ulysses Cotherwaite and how much to their genuine hope of giving their child more of an iron will; but whatever the motivation, they were paying him—very handsomely indeed—for this fantasy, contingent upon its success, and there were far too many good works he could perform for his small population for him to pass it up without exerting the best of his efforts to that end.

Within about ten minutes they came on a small, clear stream that burbled happily along under a dense canopy of palms that let in tantalizing glimpses of a deep turquoise sky. Small, colorful tropical fish were plainly visible in the water, flitting back and forth in small swarms, and Roarke smiled at the sight, glancing down toward the beach which lay barely within sight to the south. Sophronia saw the fish too and apparently couldn't resist their bright hues. "Why, how adorable!" she exclaimed, kneeling to get a better look.

There was a faint rustling in the vegetation around them and Roarke caught several split-second glimpses of figures moving in the trees. With a final smile, he closed his eyes and left the girl where she crouched, without a word or any other sound. He knew his islanders well; she'd be frightened, but they wouldn't harm her.

About three hours later he was in the tree-shaded shack that served as the island's post office, sorting through parceled newspapers and a few letters in expensive rag-paper envelopes, when the duke and duchess burst in on him. "There you are, Roarke!" the duke roared, making the native postal clerk stare in startled amazement. "A word with you, if you can tear yourself away from this travesty you call a business!"

"What seems to be the trouble, Your Grace?" Roarke asked mildly.

" '_Seems_ to be'!" the duke shouted. "For your information, my daughter has been kidnapped! Do you hear me? _Kidnapped! _ What have you to say to that?" He brandished a torn piece of paper in Roarke's face; Roarke backed up a step, assuming it was some manner of ransom note, or at least an announcement of Sophronia's fate.

Exaggerating ever so slightly, Roarke easily contrived a horrified look. "A kidnapping on my island? This is truly unprecedented!" he stormed. "You good people may rest assured that I shall not stand for such shenanigans. I have a fine constabulary here, and I'll see to it that they are sent to rescue your daughter straightaway."

"You'd certainly better," the duke thundered. "Otherwise, I'll see you sued for everything you own on this island…no, on this planet! I'll ruin you, Roarke, you can count on it!"

"Oh, you men," the duchess snapped. "Quacking and cackling to the skies while my child languishes in the hands of barbarian savages. I've not yet met a man who doesn't find it necessary to outbluster every other male within five miles of him before he takes action. Cedric, do cease your ridiculous outburst this moment. And Mr. Roarke, I don't know what you think you're about, placing my fragile little girl in this sort of jeopardy…but if you want to remain crowned head of your precious little paradise, you'd be well advised to take the indigenous inhabitants of this place well in hand. A bit of the proper treatment and they'll talk right enough, I daresay."

"Indeed, madam," Roarke said with the slightest of bows, his tone chilling slightly. "I assure you there is no need to threaten either me or my people. May I remind you that you were explicitly warned in the advertisement of which you took advantage that this is not a fully civilized place, and that there are no amenities here due to our isolated location. And was it not you who asked me to see to it that your daughter's mettle was tested?"

"Via kidnapping? Really now, Roarke," the duchess protested angrily. "Such a transgression deserves the harshest of punishments, and if you have no intention of doing anything, then I'll take matters into my own hands."

"If you do," Roarke said ominously, "you will find yourself incarcerated, madam. For on this island, I am the law and the ultimate authority, and you have no jurisdiction. I will not tolerate harsh treatment of the people under my protection here."

"Back down, Cordelia," the duke urged, looking nervous. "Surely you don't wish to make a name for yourself for the wrong reasons."

"Confound it, Cedric, what else are we to do?" his wife shrieked.

"For one thing, listen to Mr. Roarke," the duke advised urgently. "If we give the man a chance, he might be able to find a solution to this mess."

The duchess grudgingly agreed to this, and to Roarke's secret relief, they left him in peace. It gave him a chance to go directly to the police station, where his small force of constables was at the moment sitting around a rickety card table, involved in an intense game of poker. At first they didn't notice; in fact, the deputy drawled, "I'll see you your twenty and raise you a fifty."

"Sucker," said one of the constables.

"So are you all," Roarke commented, "for being so foolish as to let the sheriff talk you into playing poker with him."

Heads whipped around, bodies snapped to attention and hands of cards got slapped onto the tabletop—face down, Roarke noticed, amused. A stack of red poker chips slid to one side, spilling across the tabletop. "Mr. Roarke," blurted the deputy.

"Ah, you recognize me," Roarke said, smiling faintly. "I have a job for you men. We have guests here—very wealthy guests, may I add—and their daughter has been kidnapped by a rogue faction from the fishing village. You are to look into it without delay."

"Right away, Mr. Roarke," blurted a ragged chorus of voices, and chairs scraped back over the rough wooden floor as the men stood up. The deputy barked out orders to his five-man force as they streamed out the door, and the sheriff slowly followed, glancing wistfully back at the card table.

"A problem, Sheriff?" Roarke inquired.

The man, one of the Californians who had recently settled on the island, turned a mournful stare on him. "Shoot fire, Mr. Roarke," he sighed, "an' I was winnin', too." Before Roarke could respond, he had trotted out the door, heading for the nearest jungle path.

Chuckling, Roarke shook his head and started back for his own small hut, which served mostly as his home, though it doubled as his office as far as the police and other islanders were concerned. Maybe someday he'd add a room to the place for exclusive use as an office, so that his living quarters remained undisturbed; but that was for the future, assuming this very first fantasy didn't completely backfire on him and the Duke and Duchess of Huntsmore were willing to spread the word.

Fortunately, his law-enforcement team were efficient workers. Before two hours had elapsed, the deputy, a brawny native man who tended to incite fear in most of the other islanders, was knocking on the heavy palm lumber that had been used to construct Roarke's hut. "She's been kidnapped all right, sir," he reported without waiting for a prompt from Roarke. "The Band of Six got her."

Though this small gang of toughs hadn't been in existence as a group for very long, they had managed to create such a reputation for themselves around the island that Roarke knew very well who they were. They'd been agitating for some time, slashing fishing nets, chopping holes in outriggers, burning down decrepit old huts; but hadn't gone so far as to harm anyone till now. He still didn't know what they wanted. "Have they finally given some motive?" he asked.

"Nothing yet. But you know how it is, sir, they refuse to speak any English. We tried talking to them in Akoese, but no go." After centuries of isolation from the outside world and generations of separation from their Maori ancestors, the island natives had developed a local dialect in which Roarke, from necessity, had grown fluent himself.

Roarke had had enough of the Band of Six and their various acts of vandalism. "Give them a message from me. Tell them that if they do not release the young lady and state what they want, once and for all, they will be permanently banished from my island. I find it regrettable that they have brought matters to this state, but it's their own doing. I want to help, but they are making it difficult, if not impossible, and I must take action to keep the peace around here."

"Right away. Should I wait for any response?" the deputy asked.

Roarke frowned. "They'll have to come and deliver it to me in person. Don't bother to wait around, you have a family to get home to tonight."

The deputy nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke." He departed, and Roarke sat back and sighed gently. He had figured it would be the Band of Six who would take the bait he'd put forth in the person of Sophronia Atherton. It was a test of sorts, to find out whether he could maintain law and order on this island and gain the respect he sought from the people under his protection: a test for him every bit as much as for Sophronia. Would either one of them pass it?


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- October 13, 1871

Something about Sophronia's attitude told Roarke she wasn't likely to put up with too much from her captors. She might passively accept whatever was handed her, but it had to be the best. If she didn't get it…now _there_ was the question, Roarke told himself with a faint smile, on his way to the hotel for breakfast. Sophronia's reaction to their denial of her wishes would be the turning point of the whole thing.

Plotting out various possible scenarios in his head, he ate at some leisure, then left the building and strolled casually into a small copse, whereupon he performed the trick that would put him directly at Sophronia's side. She sat with what he recognized as fishing-net twine—well-used from the smell of it—securing her hands behind her back, her ankles tied together with more twine, and her voluminous skirts smeared with the dust of the floor of the tiny hut she had been squirreled away in. There was a small fire burning in the middle of the floor, atop a small mound of crushed seashells. The fire popped, startling her into whipping her head around, which was when she saw Roarke.

"Oh, thank God!" she gasped, eyes huge with relief. "Mr. Roarke, sir, you've arrived in the nick of time. Quickly, please, untie me so that we may get back to my dear mama and papa soonest…"

Roarke regarded her thoughtfully. "Much as I would like to do so," he said with mild regret in his tone, "I am very much afraid I cannot." At her shocked look, he shrugged a little. "Well, after all, those who kidnapped you are still nearby, are they not? I doubt very highly that we would get very far before we were discovered attempting to escape."

Sophronia's face fell. "Oh dear," she said and sighed. "So I must remain here."

Disappointed, Roarke shook his head, _tsk_ing at her. "My dear Miss Atherton! Surely you don't mean to merely accept whatever lot your kidnappers dole out to you!"

"What else can I do?" she asked mournfully.

Roarke knelt. "Has it ever occurred to you that you have a perfect right to be upset at what has been done to you?" he asked, his levity dissolving. "Why, after all, these people have broken the law! How have they treated you?"

Sophronia actually had to think about it for a moment. "Well," she began hesitantly, "they've provided me with shelter and food and water."

Roarke waited for her to go on, but when she didn't, he indicated the twine holding her hostage. "And do you consider this a part of their hospitality?"

Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at him in disbelief. "Of course not! Do you think me utterly mad? Even the most barbaric of our neighbors would never stoop so low as to tie their guests so that they couldn't move!"

"Then why accept this as inevitable?" Roarke asked. "Surely you have no intention of allowing them to keep you here indefinitely, Miss Atherton."

"Well," Sophronia retorted with unexpected sparks in her eyes, "it's rather difficult to gain control of the situation when one is in the minority, and trussed like a Christmas goose to boot, Mr. Roarke."

"Indeed," he said and smiled. "You have a point…that does put you at a disadvantage. Perhaps you should try communicating with them. Most kidnappers have some concrete reason for taking their victims. If you find yourself having difficulty starting a conversation, begin with these words. _Moko'u i'ihau na pakau_. They mean 'what do you want?' in the local Polynesian dialect."

Sophronia looked totally blank, and slowly he repeated the words. She carefully parroted him, looking at him quizzically when she finished, and he nodded encouragingly, urging her to practice the phrase till she had it down cold. She quietly chanted the words to herself several times over, then frowned and looked up. "What if they don't reply in English? I won't know what they're trying to tell me."

Roarke smiled. "It's often been my experience that a few words in a local language will open many vistas for you," he said. "If you try them, you may be very surprised."

"Hmm," she mumbled, her eyes sliding out of focus, her head tipping to one side as she considered this. Then they both heard footsteps approaching the hut, and Roarke saw her head crank away from him. He took that moment to disappear.

Within an hour he had a messenger from the fishing village. "Mr. Roarke," the teenage girl said, catching him on his way to the duke and duchess' bungalow, "it's the Band of Six. They're ready to negotiate."

"Excellent!" Roarke exclaimed, feeling like a detective who'd just received a valuable break on a very tough case. "We have no time to waste—quickly, take me to them."

The sky was beginning to thicken with overcast when he and the girl reached the area where Sophronia was being held captive. The hut she was in had been torn down; its bamboo-stick walls and palm-frond roof lay in a forlorn heap on the sand. The girl fled to the fishing village some ways down the beach; one of the half-dozen burly young native men started after her, but Roarke called, "Halt!" The figure froze, then slumped and joined his fellows in approaching Roarke. One of them had Sophronia by the arm and was tugging her along with him, although to Roarke's surprise, he didn't get much resistance from her.

"You can take the girl back, Mr. Roarke," said the biggest one of the lot, who Roarke assumed must be the leader by dint of his sheer size. "She's been trouble the whole time we've had her, wailing and weeping, demanding things we can't give her."

"How can we give them to her when we don't have proper material for fishing nets?" demanded a second young man. "You've seen our nets, haven't you? We no longer know how to weave them from local materials as the elders once did, and those stingy merchants at the ship dock refuse to sell or barter us twine to make new nets."

Roarke stared at them. "Is that the only reason you took the young lady?"

"Not quite," said the leader, looking comically sheepish for such a hefty specimen of humanity. "We knew she's the daughter of extremely rich foreigners. We only want money to get the materials to build new boats, tie new nets, and build sturdier dwellings that don't blow away so easily with every typhoon edge that skirts this island. We asked for a ransom of one thousand dollars." He peered narrowly over his shoulder at Sophronia. "Her parents would never miss that sort of money, but we could do wonders with it."

Roarke sighed gently and smiled. "As a matter of fact, the young lady's parents have promised a tidy sum for the safe return of their child…among other things. That money will be used to benefit everyone on the island—including the inhabitants of the fishing village. Surely you didn't think that, simply because I had started this resort, I was going to abandon you! I have a great responsibility here, and I intend to follow through on it. All of you who live on this island are my people, and I am sworn to protect all of you. And not only you, but all the plants and animals native to this place. This is to be a very special sanctuary."

The six young men stared at one another, faces slack with amazement. "We didn't know this," the leader finally said. "No one saw fit to tell us."

"Perhaps," Roarke offered gently, "you were too upset to listen."

The leader grumpily folded his arms over his chest, but the young man who held Sophronia nodded. "I think you're right, Mr. Roarke." He looked at Sophronia, who gazed up at him with a besotted little smile. "We were sure that rich white people like Sophy and her parents would overrun this island and eventually push us away into the worst parts of the interior, without a care for our culture and our way of life. But Sophy spoke our language, Mr. Roarke. She showed that she truly cares about someone other than herself."

"I see," Roarke said, catching the smile and bob of the head that Sophronia aimed at him, and smiling back. "Well, then, and I believe it's time to return Miss Atherton to her parents, who I am certain will be very glad indeed to see her."

Sophronia hesitated a moment, then stretched onto her tiptoes and whispered something into the ear of the young man holding her arm. He beamed and nodded, then let her go, and she trotted over to Roarke. "I'm ready, Mr. Roarke."

The duke and duchess were beside themselves at Sophronia's return, and the duke made short work of pressing a bank draft into Roarke's hand. "The money we pledged you in the event you brought us our daughter safe and sound," he said, "and of course, fulfilled our fantasy…" He stopped, then abruptly snatched the check out of Roarke's hand, mildly startling the latter man. "Just a moment. _Did_ you fulfill it?"

Roarke merely gestured at Sophronia, who was just being pushed into a chair by her mother. "Mama, please," the girl said, "I'm fine. You need not fuss over me so."

"But you've just survived a horrendous ordeal at the hands of barbarian ruffians," the duchess exclaimed.

Sophronia rolled her eyes. "They weren't barbarian at all," she said and released a delicate little snort. "All they wanted was the means by which to improve their lives here on this island. Once Mr. Roarke brought them to understand that he intends to use his earnings from his resort to help all the people who live here, they were very gracious and allowed me to leave with him. Why, they even wished me farewell and smooth sailing."

"Well," said the duchess, blinking.

"My apologies," the duke mumbled and gave the check back to Roarke. "Noble undertakings, my good sir, very noble indeed. I commend your intentions, and I wish you great success with them."

"I thank you, most sincerely," Roarke said warmly and bowed just a little. "Now I'm sure Miss Atherton would prefer a short rest, so if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you and your wife to spend time with your daughter."

The rest of the day was quiet and relaxed, and Roarke retired for the night feeling as if perhaps this fantasy-granting stuff just might work out after all. He could at least be cautiously optimistic, anyway…what was that noise? He sat up in bed and listened carefully, certain he could hear voices shouting at some distance.

He swiftly dressed and went to investigate. It soon became clear that the noise was originating at the Athertons' bungalow; the duke and duchess had Sophronia by one arm, and the young native whom Roarke had seen with the Band of Six had the other. The girl was clearly struggling to get away from her parents, to his surprise.

"Perhaps I can mediate," Roarke said, raising his voice to be heard over the duchess' shrill haranguing. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Again with the '_seems_ to be'!" roared the duke. "Dash it all, Roarke, our child wants to run away with this young heathen!"

"He's not a heathen!" Sophronia shouted at him. "He's a lovely man and he wants to give me everything he can. And I love him, Father, do you hear? I'm in love with him!"

"Impossible!" screamed the duchess.

"It's not impossible," Sophronia screamed right back, somehow managing to top her mother for sheer volume. "I've come to see that our lifestyle is decadent and overly fussy and loaded with far too many things, too much pomp and arrogance. Kapi and his family and friends live admirably simple lives, and look how healthy and filled with energy they are. They have a great zest for life, Mama, and I want to share it with Kapi!"

"But…you're an engaged woman," Roarke put in then, "as you took such care to point out to me yesterday, Miss Atherton."

"Oh, bosh," Sophronia spat, tossing her head. Her hair, pinned up for a night's sleep, sailed free of its restraints and splashed down her back in a waterfall of blonde waves. "Now that I've seen how a real man lives, I want nothing to do with my so-called fiancé. Do you hear that, Mama and Papa? I categorically refuse to marry that fop, Homer Ulysses Cotherwaite! A pantywaist! A weakling! A…a…a polished, fawning, simpering toady, that's what he is, do you hear me? I want Kapi and no other, and if you do not allow me to remain here to marry him, I'll bring him home on the next ship out of here and we shall both be miserable together! We shall always be round to remind you of how you refused us our happiness!"

Out of pure shock, her parents' grips had slackened, and she yanked her arm away and snuggled into her boyfriend's embrace. Cedric and Cordelia Atherton, Duke and Duchess of Huntsmore, looked at each other; Roarke wasn't certain the duchess wouldn't faint in the next few seconds. She remained standing, however, though she did lay the back of her hand against her forehead. "Ohhhhh dear," she moaned.

"Let's go, my dearest true love," Sophronia cooed at Kapi, whose fingers were combing arduously through her thick golden hair. "I want you to show me paradise." With that they linked arms and strolled away.

"Ohhhhhh…" the duchess moaned again and finally did faint. The duke caught her, staring all the while after his daughter and the strapping young native.

"Good Lord, Roarke," the man uttered at last, turning his bewildered gaze on Roarke. "What in the name of purgatory just occurred here?"

Roarke almost managed not to smile. "I believe your daughter has acquired the backbone you were so eagerly seeking for her," he said.

Cedric Atherton blinked a few times, peered after his daughter once more, then began to chuckle, a little weakly, but cheerfully all the same. "By George, Roarke, you're right," he said. "You're absolutely right. Backbone, indeed, yes! By George…" He thrust out his hand, and Roarke grasped it and shook with him. "Cordelia will come to see this in time. Thank you, Roarke, thank you very much." With that, the duke swept his wife up into his arms and carried her through the bungalow door, flipping it shut with one foot. Laughing quietly to himself, Roarke retreated to his own hut and a good night's sleep.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

Christian and Leslie were both laughing as Roarke wound up the narrative. "So did they actually get married, and remain on the island?" Christian asked.

"Yes, they did," Roarke said, grinning. "They made their home in the fishing village, and young Sophronia became quite an accomplished cook with the local fish. For years she sent fire-roasted delicacies to our dining room for elegant dinners, and made quite the name for herself, in between raising eight children with Kapi. Some ten percent of today's fishing-village inhabitants are descended from those two."

"What about her parents?" Leslie asked.

"They grew to accept Kapu. They returned for periodic visits here, and in fact took one of their grandsons back to England with them for schooling. It was he who inherited their estates in that country. However, enough generations have passed by now that I don't believe the two family branches are aware of their relationship today."

Once more they took a break in the conversation to enjoy the non-alcoholic sangria Mariki had brought out; then Christian cleared his throat. "I'm wondering…I actually have two more questions for you. The first one: has anyone ever accused you of being a mere run-of-the-mill magician, using the sort of sleight-of-hand that regular mortal performers apply? Smoke and mirrors, trick props and such things?"

"Oh, absolutely," Roarke said, chuckling. "I've had a number of such accusations over the years, but perhaps none more persistent than a rather gung-ho television personality who hosted a once-very-popular newsmagazine program."

"_Exposé America_," said Leslie instantly. "It was one of those syndicated shows that used to be aired in the evenings alongside entertainment-news programs and game shows. It ran for some fifteen years before the concept wore out with TV audiences—in fact, I can remember Michael Hamilton watching it religiously, right up till he died. Mom never put any stock in it, and I used to wonder why sometimes, up till I moved here."

Roarke chuckled and Christian grinned. "Indeed so," Roarke said. "The young woman in question was so eager to prove I was no more than a charlatan that she brought a camera crew here with her to record every moment of my downfall. The problem was that she was brought low by no fewer than two fantasizers in her very own entourage."


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § -- November 27, 1982

The first guest off the plane was a balding, gray-haired man wearing glasses with dark square rims. "Ah," Roarke said with recognition, "Mr. Jack Oberstar, a successful businessman from Denver, Colorado."

"He looks kind of uptight," Tattoo commented of the unsmiling man. "What's his fantasy?"

"To go back in time to World War II," said Roarke.

"We sure get a lot of those," Leslie said with a soft sigh.

"I know," Tattoo agreed. "What does he want to be, a dead hero?"

Roarke smiled slightly. "No, my friend, he wants to find proof that his older brother was not the coward history has judged him to be. Unfortunately, he may be risking his life for nothing." Without embellishing on this, he returned his gaze to the plane, where this time a blonde woman clad in an attractive red jacket over a black dress with red stripes stepped out, followed by a man carrying a small, compact television camera.

"Boss, I know her," Tattoo realized in surprise. "She's one of the reporters for that TV newsmagazine."

"Quite right, Tattoo. Ms. Christine Connolly, of _Exposé America_, one of the most popular television programs of that country."

"Is she out to get one of our guests?" Tattoo inquired, evoking a giggle from Leslie.

Roarke, too, looked oddly amused, even though his next words produced aghast reactions in his two companions. "No, my friend, she is out to get me."

They stared at him. "What do you mean, boss?" demanded Tattoo.

"What'd you do?" Leslie kidded, though her expression was uneasy.

Roarke laughed. "Actually, she intends to prove that Fantasy Island is a fraud."

"What?" squawked Tattoo, outraged. "Boss!" Before he could protest any further, Roarke's drink arrived and he toasted their guests. Jack Oberstar nodded brusquely; Christine Connolly's cameraman filmed Roarke delivering his weekly greeting while she raised her glass with a wide grin that, to Leslie and Tattoo at least, looked challenging.

‡ ‡ ‡

Their first stop was at a bungalow that had been newly constructed over the summer, A-frame-style, with the main entrance on the second floor through French windows that were reached by a two-sectioned outdoor stairway. Within, Jack Oberstar gestured silently at a plush sofa where Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo took seats. Roarke had just broached the possibility of Jack's quest being in vain.

"No, no, no, Mr. Roarke, I know my brother," Jack said firmly. "You see, he was everything to our family." He sat heavily in a chair across from his hosts. "After our father died, Kenny took over. He took two jobs to support us…Lord, he even put me through college. You see, there wasn't a selfish nor a cowardly bone in his body."

Roarke said, "Yet, in my research to prepare your fantasy, I find the Army accused him of abandoning his command under fire, deserting and then engaging in black marketeering in Europe after the war."

"They had no proof," Jack snapped. "No one who knew Kenny ever saw him again after that day near Anzio."

"You think he was killed in action?" Tattoo questioned.

"Yes, I do, Tattoo," Jack said. "And over the years, especially while our mother was still alive, I've tried to prove his innocence. Unfortunately, I've been unsuccessful. And the grief that that caused our mother led her to lose hope and eventually contributed to her early death." Roarke listened quietly, glancing at Tattoo and Leslie, whose faces were solemn.

"I hope your fantasy fulfills all your expectations, Mr. Oberstar," Roarke said after a pause. His voice, like his expression, was sober. "Tattoo?"

Tattoo got up and said, "Follow me, please." Oberstar came after him, and Roarke let Leslie precede him to the tall double doors on the other end of the room. "In here, please," Tattoo directed next, opening the left-hand door. Leslie stepped aside at a glance from Roarke, who followed his guest into the room. Tattoo pulled the door shut and looked at Leslie, who sighed deeply.

"I remember one fantasy where a guy wanted to meet his father who died in World War II," she said slowly, "and Mr. Roarke referred to it as 'the last great romantic conflict.' But almost every World War II fantasy we've had tends to deal with death and betrayal and all kinds of awful tragedies. How can anyone call that romantic?"

Tattoo smiled sadly. "That's a really good question, Leslie," he said. "And I don't think there's a quick answer for it. Come on, let's go back to the main house and wait for the boss there. I'm sure Christine Connolly is on a tight shooting schedule."

Roarke returned before the reporter showed up, but she wasn't far behind; and he invited her to have a seat, which she declined. "How may I be of service?" he inquired.

"Well, I thought that, if it's okay with you, I would interview some of your guests on camera. You have no objections, do you?" Christine asked.

"If they have none, I have none," replied Roarke with a smile.

"Good!" said Christine and turned to survey the room. "Then I thought…oh, this is lovely! Then I thought I might interview you," she added, turning to study him speculatively, "because I would like the audience to watch you as you respond."

Tattoo, having gone to let Christine in, said from behind her, "Boss…" Roarke turned to face him, and he said with enormous suspicion, "She's hoping you'll get mad and throw her out of your office while the camera's rolling."

"Naw, I'm afraid I'll have no such luck," Christine remarked in a tone that made Leslie, who stood behind Roarke's desk going through the mail, look up and frown. "My research tells me that Mr. Roarke has his emotions totally under control at all times…like all good con artists." Leslie's frown turned into a glare.

Roarke eyed her with a reserved but polite smile. "Just what did your 'research' entail, Ms. Connolly?" he inquired coolly.

"Well, mainly, I just interviewed some of your clients," Christine replied, matching his vaguely frosty tone, "some of your guests who've been here before. Would you like to know how many?" Roarke nodded. "Eleven," she told him, "and you know how many dissatisfied customers you had? None."

_So there,_ thought Leslie with a smirk, which Tattoo saw and grinned at in return. Roarke said, "Well, then, may I ask why you are here?"

"Well, because my experience tells me that there is no such thing as eleven satisfied customers," Christine said, pausing against the support post at the top of the foyer steps. "So I don't know what you did, whether you drugged them or hypnotized them, or maybe even both. But I intend to find out. Thanks." She favored them with a smile, turned and let herself out the door.

Leslie dropped the mail and joined Roarke and Tattoo at the steps, just to make sure she was really leaving, while Roarke leaned one hand against the post and watched with one foot on the first step up and a curiously amused smile. Both she and Tattoo saw it and stared at him in disbelief. "You gotta be kidding," Tattoo said.

"She has some nerve," said Leslie. "You know something, Mr. Roarke, I'm glad there's only one TV set in this house. I can't imagine watching muckraking junk like that show she's on. We'd never watch anything like that, would we?" She directed this question at Tattoo, who cleared his throat and lowered his gaze, guiltily shifting his weight. Leslie's mouth dropped open. "Tattoo!" she exclaimed.

"Well, after this, I'll never watch it again," Tattoo announced and eyed a still-smiling Roarke. "I promise, boss. Never thought she'd come after you."

"Well, she won't find anything, will she, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie said loyally.

Roarke just grinned. "She will try," he said. "Now we have a contest to get to, and since I am the announcer, we'd best hurry."

The contest in question turned out to be a weight-lifting competition that was intended to determine the strongest man in the world. Everything went according to plan, and eventually Roarke introduced the next-to-last contestant: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, from Venice, California, USA, Mr. Truck Sheehy." The audience applauded politely while a muscle-bound man took the small stage, which reminded Leslie of a miniature Greek atrium. "Mr. Sheehy will be attempting to lift 570 pounds, a new world's record."

Leslie, bored by the weight-lifting, found herself watching the little white press tent that Roarke had set up for the _Exposé America_ crew behind the last row of seats in the audience. The breeze played with the canvas, making one side of the entrance flap rhythmically so that she could easily see Christine Connolly from time to time, interviewing a skinny African-American man whose back was to the door. Just as the man stepped aside and Christine and her cameraman came out of the tent, Roarke spoke into his microphone, startling Leslie, who turned to watch the doings on stage. "Now I must ask you for absolute silence," her guardian said.

The brawny young man onstage heaved a monstrous barbell over his head and stood straining under the weight of more than a quarter ton, while Roarke looked off to the right and smiled. Leslie followed his gaze. "The judges," Roarke said, "are indicating that Mr. Sheehy has succeeded in lifting five hundred and seventy pounds, for a new world's record!" The man on stage dropped the barbell and everyone began to applaud.

"Only one contestant stands now between Mr. Sheehy and the championship," Roarke went on. "Ladies and gentlemen, here is that final contestant, a virtual unknown from Chandler, Ohio…Mr. Jay Michaels." To Leslie's astonishment, the painfully thin young black man Christine had earlier been interviewing emerged from the press tent and hesitantly approached the stage. The guy might have weighed 120 soaking wet; what business did he have trying to compete in this thing? The audience got one look at him and broke into surprised laughter. Jay Michaels edged away from the murderous glare Truck Sheehy aimed at him and went up onstage.

Leslie saw Christine lift her mike to her lips and speak quietly into it, but she turned to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke…what's that guy doing up there? He probably weighs about a quarter what those barbells do!"

Roarke just winked and smiled at her, then spoke into his own mike. "In this, his first and final attempt of the day, Mr. Michaels will try to break the world's record by lifting five pounds more than Mr. Sheehy," he told the audience.

"Five!" scoffed Jay suddenly from the stage, loudly enough for all to hear. "Let's make that fifty. Let's go for the whole full hilt."

Even Roarke looked a bit stunned. "Fifty pounds, for a total of six hundred and twenty pounds, ladies and gentlemen! I again must ask you for complete silence, please." Tattoo eyed the skinny young man with serious doubt; Leslie winced, convinced Jay Michaels was about to permanently ruin his back. She looked away from the stage and spotted Christine Connolly standing with her cameraman, who was filming the whole thing. She made a face and hid one hand behind her back, where she crossed her fingers.

Jay Michaels bent to grasp the barbell, and Roarke said, "Uh…Mr. Michaels?" The young man came downstage, where Roarke met him and advised, "It is customary to chalk your hands first." Jay cleared his throat, and Roarke turned to Tattoo while Leslie looked on, suddenly realizing what must be about to happen. Trust her guardian to mount his attack from within the enemy's ranks! Her fingers came uncrossed and she tried hard not to smile smugly. Meanwhile, Roarke took a little black box from Tattoo, opened it and lifted out a small pouch, which he held over Jay's outstretched hands. The powder that drifted into his palms seemed to sparkle and gleam like silver. Leslie shot a cautious glance toward Christine, wondering if she had seen it.

Jay returned to the stage, dusting the magical powder across his palms. One of the straps on his light body leotard slipped off his shoulder and he self-consciously drew it back into place, casting a quick look at Christine. Leslie saw her wave at him with the microphone; he grinned and bent to heft up the barbell.

It came up with no effort at all, and his grin vanished into a startled look. He gritted his teeth—undoubtedly for show, Leslie thought—and heaved the thing to shoulder height, glancing back and forth to be sure he had everyone's attention. Finally, baring his teeth again, he lifted the barbell high over his head and stood with a broad smile, not even straining. The audience was clearly stunned; Truck Sheehy's mouth fell open, and so did that of Christine Connolly. Roarke glanced at the judges, both of whom nodded.

"The judges have confirmed it, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Jay Michaels has lifted a record-breaking six hundred and twenty pounds to win the championship!"

Jay dropped the barbell and Leslie looked over at Christine, whose mouth still hung open. She smirked again while Jay leaped up and down on the stage yelling, "I did it! I don't believe I did it…I did it!!" It was then that Christine turned a stare of sheer consternation in Roarke's direction; it was obvious that she saw not only Leslie's smirk but Roarke's knowing smile, and shot them both a supremely dirty look.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -- November 27, 1982

"Look, Mr. Roarke, I've seen two planeloads of passengers come and go already, and my ex-wife hasn't been on either one of them. Maybe you can't handle my fantasy." The words came from a nearly bald guest with a fringe of dark hair and an unprepossessing face, sitting hunched dejectedly in one of the club chairs.

"Patience, Mr. Thomas, patience, please," Roarke advised. "So you were divorced after twenty years of marriage, and now you feel you made a mistake, huh?"

Frank Thomas sat wringing his hands, looking restless. "I'd do anything to get Connie back. Trouble is, she moved away the day the divorce was final. I don't know where she is or how she'd feel about reconciliation."

"Yours is not an easy fantasy, Mr. Thomas," Roarke commented.

"Look," Thomas said, standing up, "if you can't get my ex-wife and me back together again, why don't you just give me back my money and we'll forget the whole thing."

Roarke smiled patiently and held up a finger. "I said it would be difficult—not impossible," he clarified. "Go back to your bungalow, Mr. Thomas, and try to relax." He escorted the rather distraught man to the door and looked him straight in the eye. "Your fantasy will be granted…I promise you." Thomas finally smiled faintly and left, at which point Tattoo turned to Roarke while Leslie watched from the desk, where she'd taken up the mail again.

"Boss, I'm worried," Tattoo admitted. "What if we can't make his fantasy work?"

Roarke studied him thoughtfully. "We do seem to be having our difficulties, don't we, Tattoo?" he observed in a soft voice.

"Yes," Tattoo noted, "and we also have that woman snooping around the island, waiting for us to fail. We've got to do something."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, my friend, I quite agree," he said. "I quite agree." And from the desk, Leslie could see his expression of contemplation.

"You don't think it's just a coincidence, that we're having all this trouble just when Christine Connolly's hanging around, do you?" she asked. Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her and then at each other; Roarke smiled slightly.

"If I were you, Leslie," he said, "I'd remember that little conversation about faith we had last year." Leslie sighed softly; every time she had doubts, he had a habit of bringing up that last business with Mephistopheles, at which time they had spoken for some thirty minutes about their level of trust in each other. It was getting old, but it still worked; so she could hardly protest his use of it.

"Okay, okay. But I don't know how you can blame me, when you yourself seem to be a little worried, and Tattoo's having doubts too," she pointed out.

Roarke shot Tattoo a look; the Frenchman just shrugged sheepishly, and Leslie ducked her head to hide her smile. "I suggest that the two of you need some sort of distraction," Roarke said. "Tattoo, perhaps you should make some routine rounds; and Leslie, you might go to your friend Maureen's mother's catering company and check in on their preparations for tonight's luau." Tomai's Catering was replacing the usual group of native islanders who did the food preparation and serving; the latter people had come down with some sort of bug, which Tattoo had surmised with mild annoyance had probably been imported by some passing vacationer.

Leslie wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but at least it gave her something to do; so she went. On her way back, though, she got a distraction that served to cheer her up enormously. As she was approaching the lane where most of the older bungalows were located, she started hearing voices—both male, from the sound of it. One seemed angry, the other panicked. A moment later she rounded a bend in the path and stopped short, gaping in disbelief, then ducking back behind a tree before either of the men there saw her. Truck Sheehy, the muscleman at the weight-lifting contest, was hoisting poor Jay Michaels off the ground with only a minimum of effort. Jay's eyes bulged with fear and his feet dangled in the air.

"There's no way a lousy little dirtball like you could've beat me in that contest," Sheehy was growling as he lifted Michaels. _"No way!!_ You know it and I know it, and very soon those judges better know it! Catch on??" He shook Jay a little.

Leslie was still trying to figure out what to do when Christine Connolly appeared from around the last bungalow on the lane. "Hey!" Christine burst out and broke into a run. "Hey, you, stop that! Come on, now, put him down." Sheehy stared at her, then grinned and obligingly, if slowly, lowered Michaels back to the grass. Christine glared back at him; finally the muscleman turned and sauntered off, looking far too cheerful. Christine loosed a loud, annoyed breath and turned to Michaels, while Leslie tried to shrink behind a tree trunk. "You all right?" Christine asked.

"Yeah," said Michaels, sounding a bit winded. "You know, he thinks I cheated. He thinks I rigged the contest!"

"He doesn't think anything," Christine retorted. "He does exactly what Roarke tells him to do at all times." Leslie scowled at her but remained hidden.

"Yeah?" Jay inquired skeptically, looking at some point past her. Leslie looked too; one of the station wagons was approaching, with two people in the front seats.

"Yeah," Christine asserted firmly.

"You sure about that?" Michaels asked dubiously.

"I'm positive about that," she said.

"Then, uh…what about her?" Finally Christine turned to follow his gaze, while Leslie wondered what was going on. A moment later she had her answer.

"Wait a minute," Christine gasped. "That can't be! That—that's Connie…Frank's ex-wife!"

_Aha!!_ thought Leslie triumphantly and grinned, then backed slowly down the path the way she had come, waiting for Christine and her production assistant to clear out of the area before she continued on her way home. _Score one for our side!_ She watched Michaels and Christine walking away, talking earnestly and with Christine making all sorts of furious hand motions, before at last venturing out of hiding and heading for the main house at a very fast walk.

When she got back Roarke had stepped out to see to the Oberstar fantasy; Tattoo was there, though, just finishing up a phone call. "What took you so long?" he asked when she came in through the French shutters.

"I saw something that looks really encouraging," she said and outlined to him what she'd just seen near the bungalows. Tattoo chuckled, then lost his brief cheer and stared towards the foyer. "As if we haven't got enough troubles…the boss had to go back to World War II. Back to Anzio."

"What about Anzio?" Leslie asked. "I never heard of it."

"It's a town in Italy," Tattoo told her, "the site of one of the very worst battles in the war, on the European front anyway. The casualties were terrible. I'm just hoping the boss has enough sense not to let himself get caught in the crossfire when he goes back." He shook his head. "I'm starting to wish this weekend were over."

"For once, so am I," Leslie murmured reluctantly. "I wish I could figure out why that Christine Connolly has it in for Mr. Roarke. I mean, what's he ever done to her?"

Tattoo shrugged. "Nothing, of course. She's just doing her job, and her job is to dig up dirt on people. And with the boss being who he is, she probably thought she could get a real coup out of exposing him. Except…there's nothing to expose."

"We know that," Leslie said, "but she could really get ratings out of a fantasy that goes wrong, and that's more than enough to worry about."

‡ ‡ ‡

On a tiny boarded-up street in a little town in Italy, almost forty years before, Jack Oberstar—now much younger than he had been upon arriving on Fantasy Island, and determined to keep his brother safe somehow—made a run for it across the street, despite Ken Oberstar's express orders to the contrary. From a covered second-floor balcony of a house at the far end of the street, machine guns blasted at him, and he threw himself to the ground behind an overturned Army jeep, trying to present less of a target. Someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him to his feet, swinging him around. When he got a good look at the other man, he realized it was Roarke, decked out in authentic Army fatigues, boots and helmet. They stared at each other for a moment; then Roarke said, "I warned you it would be a most dangerous fantasy, Mr. Oberstar."

Jack's startled stare grew belligerent. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Let me just say that I had a feeling my presence would be useful," Roarke said. "Besides, I believe there is a…shall we say, secret part of your fantasy that you neglected to mention to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about—" Oberstar began.

Roarke cut him off. "Mr. Oberstar, you cannot change the past. If indeed your brother did commit an act of cowardice, you cannot change that fact—any more than you can change the fact that those men are going to die." He gestured to the abandoned wine shop behind Oberstar, where his guest's brother and his small platoon were holed up.

"But Ken is my brother!" Oberstar cried. "And he's right over there—" He turned and pointed at the shop for emphasis. "And he _is_ alive. And there's got to be something that—" Spinning back to face Roarke, he found himself confronting empty air. "Mr. Roarke? Mr. Roarke!" He hissed a quiet curse to himself before impatiently dismissing the encounter and trying to figure out what move he was going to make next.

Roarke returned through the foyer, impeccable as always in his white suit, and was greeted with an emphatic "Good!" from Tattoo. Roarke grinned at him, amused.

"Worried, were you? I appreciate the sentiment, my friend." He went to his desk and checked the day planner that lay beneath the daybook he used for scheduling fantasies, and ran his finger down a list of events. "Ah, yes. Perhaps another olive branch to extend to Ms. Connolly," he murmured, as if to himself.

"What for?" demanded Leslie, incredulous, once more distracted from the mail she was having so little success at sorting. "She thinks you're a fraud, Mr. Roarke, remember? And she's frothing at the mouth trying to prove it."

"She wouldn't be the first to believe that," Roarke told her. "As a matter of fact, I recall that your mother told me that Michael Hamilton believed it as well."

"Oh, what a surprise," Leslie said sarcastically, and Roarke chuckled. "But even he wasn't out there actively trying to find a major flaw and expose it to the whole world."

"She's got a point, boss," Tattoo observed. "This one's different."

"Just bear with me, both of you, please," Roarke requested with a little smile. "I have a plan, but I would be glad of your faith." He gave Leslie that particular look again, and she hastily turned her attention to the stacks of envelopes before her in an attempt to avoid yet another reminder, making him laugh silently and wink at a grinning Tattoo.

With that, he went to Christine's bungalow, where he also found Connie Thomas. The two women studied him curiously, and he explained, "I dropped by to see if you would like to come to the party I'm having for my guests tonight."

"Oh, the party," Christine said. "Sounds wonderful. Would you like to sit down?" Roarke thanked her and took a chair while Christine and Connie sat on the sofa, and Christine added, "Can I get anybody anything?" They both declined, and Christine turned to Connie and patted her hand in welcome. "I hear you're getting married in two weeks."

"Yes," Connie said, as if reluctant to talk about it. "Two weeks from today, in fact."

"Hm," said Christine and gave Roarke a meaningful look. He eyed her with little expression, and she remarked to Connie, "Well, frankly, I never could quite understand why you and Frank decided to quit. You seemed to be so happy together…but if this is working out for you, I want you to know I'm very happy for you."

Connie nodded and replied coolly, "Thank you."

"Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Thomas," Roarke said then, drawing both women's attention, "and please don't feel you have to answer, of course…but why _did_ you get divorced?"

Connie replied, "Frank was seeing another woman."

"Frank?" Christine said blankly, staring skeptically at Connie. "He was?"

"Oh, he tried to tell me it was strictly a business relationship, but I knew better," Connie said, nodding.

"Did you know the other woman?" Christine queried.

Connie hesitated, then lifted her hands. "Look, I'd really rather not talk about this. In fact, Mr. Roarke, I think that my coming to your party is not a very good idea."

"No, wait a minute," Christine protested gently, getting a faintly indignant look from Connie. "If you're worried about running into Frank, don't be. Why don't you just think about the wedding coming up in two weeks and come on. Have a good time." Connie let out a soft sigh of exasperation, staring very oddly at Christine, who smiled and added, "I know _I'm_ going to have a good time, because I love farewell parties." With that, she looked at Roarke with a pointed little smile, and he smiled back, nodding as if to say, _So that's how you think it will be._ Christine Connolly looked too pleased with herself by far, and it was past time something was done about it.

‡ ‡ ‡

Some little time later, with Tattoo supervising the final setup for Roarke's party, Roarke and Leslie were waylaid on their way to the luau clearing by Christine's cameraman, a fellow with the improbable name of Frosty, who invited them to take a little break with them. Roarke allowed that they could stay for a little while, and steered Leslie over to a table where Christine was sitting with a decidedly unwilling-looking Connie Thomas, in the thick of relating some anecdote. Connie huffed a polite laugh, then gave Roarke a curiously begging look when he and Leslie joined them.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Roarke," she said. "And who's this?"

"My young ward, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke explained. "Leslie, this is Mrs. Connie Thomas." Leslie smiled and shook hands with Connie, and a waiter paused just then to ask what Roarke and Leslie would like to drink. They both opted for ginger ale, and the waiter filled the request within a couple of minutes, by which time Christine had launched into another silly work-related story.

"…Well, I had his microphone open, you see, and he didn't know I had it open, so you can imagine—" They never learned what they were supposed to imagine, for at that moment Jay Michaels ran up to their table.

"Uh, excuse me for interrupting," he said. They all looked up and traded greetings, and then Jay informed Christine urgently, "Walter Moreland is here."

"Oh…all right," said Christine, and added to Roarke, "Walter Moreland—that's my boss. Oh, you don't mind if he comes to the party tonight, do you?"

"Oh, I would be delighted," Roarke said warmly.

"Good. Then he can watch me wrap up my story on you in person," Christine said cheerfully, raising her glass to Roarke. "Jay, grab a chair, sit down."

Jay turned to snag a chair from another table, but had gotten no more than halfway there before Truck Sheehy intercepted him. He grabbed the hapless Jay by the shoulders and, without so much as an insult of greeting, whipped him around and shoved him right into the table where Roarke, Leslie, Christine and Connie were sitting. They barely saved their glasses in time.

"He's going to kill me," Jay blurted frantically, panting and trying to pick himself up. "He knows I didn't tell the judges."

"Well, why didn't you?" Christine exclaimed.

"Because it's the only contest I ever won," Jay told her before appealing to Roarke. "And I won that contest fair and square!"

Roarke opened the small black box he had brought with him. "I was going to give this to you later as a souvenir," he said, withdrawing the pouch inside, "but perhaps you'd better use it now instead." He handed it to Jay, and for a moment or two the thing sparkled silver in his palm.

Sheehy grabbed Jay then and threw him into another table, clearly bent on doing the latter man some serious bodily harm. Jay, all but panicking, scrubbed his hands with the pouch and lifted his fists; and when the enraged Sheehy rushed him again, Jay threw one wild punch that managed to connect, sending Sheehy reeling backwards into still another table. Christine hoisted her drink into the air and yelled, "All right, Jay!" Roarke glanced halfway toward her with the tiniest ghost of an amused smile, and Leslie shook her head to herself, wondering how many tables in all they'd have to replace before these two got through.

Foolhardily Sheehy clambered back to his feet and rushed Jay again; this time, Jay's punch sent him careening into the buffet table, across which he slid from one end to the other, taking the tablecloth and everything on it along with him. It was clear that Sheehy had had enough, and everyone there broke into applause, even Roarke and a still-dubious Leslie. "I did it!" yelled Jay, as if he'd won the weight-lifting contest all over again. Christine toasted him with her glass, beaming, as he shouted gleefully, "I beat him up with a couple lousy punches! I got my fantasy—I'm the world's strongest man!"

Christine's congratulatory grin morphed into an expression of shock and dismay, and she completely missed seeing Jay surrounded by several female admirers. She sank back in her chair in disbelief, only to see Roarke lift his own glass to her and smile benignly. All Christine could do was give him another dirty look, which decided Leslie on carefully hiding her own smug little smirk.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § -- November 28, 1982

Jack Oberstar had just watched his brother's entire platoon get shot down and witnessed the clear intentions of Ken Oberstar's sergeant, Galloway, to desert; and he had seen his brother's final act of destroying the enemy house at the far end of the street with one well-aimed hand grenade before being shot to death. _"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"_ he roared in agony, racing for Ken to see if he was somehow still alive. Thick smoke billowed up around him and he abruptly stumbled to a halt inside the small room in his bungalow where he had first gone back in time. Roarke stood in front of the doors; Oberstar squinted at him, glanced back at the photo on the wall of the Italian street where he'd just been, and then back at Roarke, bewildered.

"You have seen the truth as it really happened, Mr. Oberstar," Roarke said gently. "And now it's over."

"But Kenny was killed in action," Oberstar protested. "He was a war hero! At least let me get some proof!"

Roarke shook his head. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Oberstar, but—"

"Please," Oberstar begged. "Don't you see? If I can get Kenny's dog tags, then I can prove the remains they found in those ruins were really his. Then they'll have to do something—they'll have to investigate."

Roarke considered it for a second or two, then nodded. "All right—two minutes."

Smoke wreathed Oberstar again and he was once more pounding across the street; but when he could see clearly, he stopped in disbelief to stare at the man who crouched beside his brother's body. The man turned his profile toward Oberstar, holding a pair of dog tags in one hand, and Oberstar breathed, "Galloway…"

Galloway rose and fled, and Oberstar ran to the deserted body, throwing charred lumber and wooden slats aside and staring at his brother's lifeless face. "Kenny," he said pleadingly, hoping he'd reply, knowing he wouldn't. Hesitantly he reached underneath Ken's collar and withdrew the dog tags that lay there. To his horror, they weren't Ken Oberstar's at all.

"Peter Galloway?" Oberstar breathed in disbelief. "It was so simple. All these years…he just switched tags." Tears spilled from his eyes. "Oh, Kenny…" He gripped his brother's hand in despair.

‡ ‡ ‡

Christine's stubbornly annoyed mood was still with her at the party that evening. Dancing with Roarke, she told him, "This is all very lovely, Mr. Roarke, but I'm still going to nail you. As far as Frank Thomas is concerned, you struck out." She grinned triumphantly.

Roarke calmly took in her expression and said, "The reason I haven't been able to bring him and his ex-wife back together is that I need help. Your help."

She let out an incredulous giggle. _"My_ help?"

"Well, after all," Roarke went on, "the woman Mrs. Thomas thinks her husband is seeing is you."

Even more stunned, Christine almost missed a step and drew back to stare at him. "Me!" she blurted in disbelief.

"Well, from the way Mrs. Thomas acted in your bungalow, I thought it was quite obvious," Roarke said, sounding vaguely surprised.

"Me!" Christine gasped again, gaping at him. Before Roarke could react, they were interrupted by Frank Thomas and a gray-haired man, who offered his hand.

"Mr. Roarke?" he said.

Roarke turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Walter Moreland. News director, UBS network." As he spoke, Christine turned to stare at Connie Thomas, who sat at a table with Tattoo and Leslie. All three stared coldly at her, and she turned back to Roarke, Moreland and Thomas, flustered.

"How do you do, sir?" Roarke greeted, shaking hands.

"So…you're the man who makes fantasies come true," Moreland remarked, looking friendly enough, but there was a hint of skepticism in his tone all the same. Roarke nodded. "Well, it looks as though _Exposé America_ is about to bring your operation to a well-deserved end." At which Roarke shifted his gaze to give Christine a pointed look.

She returned it for a moment, conscience clearly jabbing her from the way he saw so many emotions flash across her face; then she sighed and gave in. "Wrong. Come with me, Frank." She grabbed Thomas' hand and led him over to the table where Connie was sitting.

They arrived in time to hear Tattoo suggest, "Why don't you consider having your honeymoon here?" Before she could reply, though, Christine sat in the fourth chair and leaned urgently forward.

"Connie," she said earnestly, "I swear to you, I never even so much as…_kissed_ Frank, or wanted to—let alone have an affair with him!" Connie glanced away uncomfortably. "So now, if that's the reason you two got a divorce, you've got to tell me, because…my God…that was really stupid."

Connie stared at her, started to speak and cut herself off, then looked up at Frank, who stared back at her with a sad, wistful expression. Finally she sighed loudly and demanded, "Well, Christine, what was I to think? I mean, he came home late just about every single night!"

"Because he is the most dedicated, hard-working tape editor I've ever been blessed with in my life," Christine shot back. Again Connie stared at Frank, then back at Christine, who insisted, "Believe me."

Connie got out of her seat just as the music ended and the dancers and spectators began to applaud, and said hesitantly, "Frank…?"

He nodded. "It's true, honey." She raised her hands to her mouth and began to cry softly, and he put an arm around her shoulders and led her away to a separate table, where they sat down and began to talk earnestly. Tattoo and Leslie smiled at each other; Christine stared gloomily into space. Walter Moreland, who along with Roarke had been watching the whole thing from within earshot, cast Roarke a bemused look and then came to confront Christine.

"Do you realize what they're doing?" he demanded.

Christine glanced fleetingly in the Thomases' direction and nodded a little. "Mm-hmm."

Moreland sat down; Tattoo and Leslie watched avidly. "Do you further realize you spent almost a hundred thousand dollars proving that Fantasy Island is legitimate?"

Christine swallowed, looking as though she might cry. "Yeah, well…these things happen," she said, slanting a cautious look at Moreland.

"Not on our network, they don't," Moreland said with a mirthless little smile. Rising, he delivered the parting shot: "Christine, you're fired." So saying, he walked away; she cast a small, halfhearted sneer after him, then sighed and flipped her palms skyward in defeat. Tattoo and Leslie both shrugged; despite themselves, they felt sorry for her.

Roarke came over to join them. "I couldn't help but overhear."

Christine shifted just her eyeballs in his direction, then summed up the whole situation. "Not only did you make Frank's fantasy come true, you used me to do it."

"I'm terribly sorry," Roarke said, genuinely sympathetic. She made a skeptical noise and rested her chin in her hands, despondent.

"I suppose now you're gonna ask me to dance," she said.

"What a lovely idea," Roarke said brightly. "Shall we?" Tattoo grinned; Leslie snickered behind her hand.

Christine eyed him. "Only if you tell me your secret."

Roarke chuckled. "Will you excuse us, Tattoo and Leslie?"

"Yes, boss, go ahead," Tattoo said, chuckling as well. Leslie nodded cheerful agreement, and Roarke led Christine out onto the dance floor. "So," Tattoo said to Leslie, "all's well that ends well, isn't that the saying?"

Leslie shrugged and aimed a little smile at him. "For everyone except Christine."

On the floor, Christine suddenly said, "And don't tell me you don't have any secrets, because I've spent fifteen years proving that when something sounds too good to be true, ten times out of ten, it isn't true, no matter how much I want to believe it."

"Ah," Roarke said, "so your real fantasy would be to prove that Fantasy Island _isn't_ a fraud, hm?"

Christine chuckled. "I suppose so," she said.

Roarke stopped dancing and gestured at the crowd surrounding them. "Well, look around, Ms. Connolly. Isn't that precisely what you've done?" He indicated Frank and Connie Thomas in particular, now dancing blissfully together. Christine finally grinned, truly happy for the Thomases, and gave herself up to the dance.

§ § § -- November 29, 1982

At the plane dock, Jack Oberstar, still brusque but now looking oddly older than he had when he'd arrived, got out of the car and said what was on his mind without bothering with a greeting. "All I wanted was some proof, Mr. Roarke. All I found was the truth. Somehow, that just isn't enough."

"Fate works in strange ways, Mr. Oberstar," Roarke said, holding up a clipping from that morning's newspaper. "This news report says that a prisoner serving a life sentence for criminal activities died yesterday in France."

"Yeah," Oberstar said. "What're you driving at, Roarke?"

"A routine fingerprint check," said Roarke, referencing the clipping, "has revealed the true identity of the prisoner to be Peter A. Galloway—long presumed to be dead in heroic military action near Anzio in 1944. He had apparently assumed the identity of the real hero: Lieutenant Ken Oberstar. The United States government has ordered a full investigation." He smiled and handed Jack Oberstar the clipping.

Slowly the man accepted it, glanced down at it and then extended a hand. His expression didn't change, but his eyes softened behind the square-rimmed glasses. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. Thank you…from both of us."

"Yes, sir," Roarke replied quietly, smiling.

"Goodbye, young lady and Tattoo," Oberstar said.

"Good luck," Tattoo replied, and Leslie nodded. The man turned and headed away to the landing dock.

The second car pulled up then and Christine Connolly alighted with her cameraman behind her. "Well, I guess this is goodbye."

"Does that mean you're not gonna thrill me on national TV anymore?" Tattoo asked, earning a stunned glare from Leslie and an odd look from Roarke.

"Thrill you on TV? Do you want her to, Tattoo?" he asked.

"No," Tattoo protested, "but when I told my aunt I was gonna be on TV, she bought a video recorder!" Leslie giggled, and Roarke rolled his eyes.

"I tell you what," Christine offered. "You give your aunt's name and address to Frosty, and I'll put together all the footage I made of you and transfer it to a cassette, and we'll send it to your aunt. Then you can be on _her_ television set!"

"Great, fantastic!" exclaimed Tattoo, delighted.

Roarke smiled at that and turned to Christine. "I'm terribly sorry about your job."

"Oh, don't be," Christine told him. "You know this whole thing has made me realize how cynical I've become? And I hate cynics." Roarke chuckled. "Listen, you're not gonna forget about me too soon, are you?"

"There is no danger of that, Ms. Connolly," Roarke assured her, kissing her hand in an old-world sort of way. They moved off; Frosty, having gotten Tattoo's aunt's address, replaced a pad and pen in his pocket and followed her along. Roarke looked strangely pensive as he waved a final farewell at Christine, and Leslie peered at him in perplexity.

"Boss, cheer up!" Tattoo said brightly. "I told him to send your aunt a cassette too." Roarke looked at him in surprise, then let out a laugh.

"And you were the one who said you were never watching that show again," Leslie told Tattoo, looking disgusted. "Shame on you." She looked so genuinely annoyed with Tattoo that the latter turned bright red, and Roarke's laughter escalated.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

Christian looked pretty satisfied when they completed their tale. "Forgive me if I seem too happy that Christine Connolly got what she deserved," he said, "because I'm afraid I enjoy it far too much when bullies receive their comeuppance."

Leslie grinned. "Believe me, I know the feeling—I'm the same way. But I don't think she was really a bully. As she said, she'd just turned into a cynic—become something she didn't even like. I guess it can happen to anyone. I mean, I never wanted to be one of those stodgy old fogies who goes around saying teenagers and all their favorite pop culture are just plain trash, you know? But the older I get, the less I like the stuff that's popular nowadays, and the more names pop up that make me go, 'Who??' And there are some things I just plain can't abide—rap, for example, and reality television, and young celebrities with more looks than brains, who're famous solely for doing stupid things."

"I can't say much about rap and reality television," Christian said sympathetically, "as little as I care for them myself. But that last commodity has been around for decades, I'm afraid. I suppose they're just more visible now. I hate to say it, Mr. Roarke, but that model, Jasmine Bellflower, comes to mind…and that reprehensible little dustrag she insisted on calling a dog. I'm afraid that weekend stands out in my mind as the most hellish I've ever had."

Roarke and Leslie laughed. "Everyone is entitled to his opinion," Roarke said, "even if it's misinformed sometimes. I believe you told me you had two questions, Christian."

"Oh yes." The prince resettled himself in his seat and slipped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Along with the claims-of-fraudulence issue, I was curious as to the immigration criteria on this island, since neither Leslie nor I are natives. I can see the circumstances in my own case, of course, since I'm married to an island citizen. But I've considered the story about how Leslie came to grow up here, and I wonder if you do that very often, Mr. Roarke. I understand Leslie isn't the only orphan you've raised."

"No," said Roarke, "but she _is_ the only one I've adopted as my own child. There have been a handful of others over the years, most of them now elderly and long since gone to lead their own separate lives. The only one still remaining is Cindy, and she has been married and teaching in the island high school for the last twenty years or so. I believe she has two children attending the high school at this time, also."

"How did she come to be in your custody?" Christian asked.

"Her parents were very good friends of mine," Roarke said. "They lived in Hawaii and made a great many trips here; Cindy was their only child, and they visited so often that they had a small beach house some distance west of the Enclave where they would spend long weekends and vacations. We became close friends; when the couple were killed in a plane crash, their will granted me guardianship of Cindy. At that time she was about fifteen, so that she was here for only two or three years before going out on her own. But eventually she returned here, once she had completed her college studies; she was employed at the island orphanage for some years before an opening came up at the high school and she was hired there."

Christian tilted his head to one side. "Were all your previous guardianships the result of friendships?"

"Yes, they were," said Roarke. "Leslie was the first child of strangers that I took in, and her circumstances were unique to my knowledge. Because of the nature of the curse on her family, she had no living relatives once her parents and sisters died in that fire. When I showed Shannon Hamilton what would happen to Leslie, at the lady's request, she understood this, and refused to rest till I had agreed to take Leslie in."

"Your mother had a lot of guts," Christian remarked to Leslie with a grin. "She must have known Mr. Roarke wouldn't be very amenable to the idea of raising the child of total strangers, yet she entrusted you to his care anyway."

"She had nowhere else to turn," Leslie said with a shrug. "We didn't really know anyone in Connecticut or California well enough for her to turn me over to anybody there, I guess. At least, I can't remember Mom and Michael ever having friends—not even casual acquaintances. Maybe Michael figured we were all going to die anyway, so what was the point—you know what I mean? But he didn't count on my grandmother. From what I understand, _mormor_ knew about Father and this island, and talked Mom into coming here to find out about the Hamilton curse. If she hadn't, I expect I'd have grown up in foster homes around northern California, then been aged out of the system and probably gotten myself into all sorts of trouble. One thing's for sure—you and I never would have met, and the triplets wouldn't exist."

Christian solemnly raised his glass of sangria. "Then here's to your _mormor_, my Rose," he said softly, and Leslie smiled and tapped his glass with hers. Roarke joined them in their impromptu toast. "So apparently, under certain circumstances, it's allowable for orphans to be raised on this island, occasionally even by you, Mr. Roarke. I realize the island orphanage has been phased out for some time now…"

Roarke nodded, breaking in, "Yes, we were fortunate to see them all adopted over the years—islanders take care of their own. Excuse me, Christian, I apologize. Please continue."

Christian smiled. "No need, I appreciate the clarification. But Leslie has filled in a few items here and there—one can immigrate if, like me, he or she marries an islander, or if he or she possesses some unique quality or ability that would warrant nurturing, especially when the rest of the world doesn't have the foresight to recognize it. Could you give me a few examples?"

"Of course. Tabitha Ordoñez is one such. She and her parents are among the last living natives of a small, isolated Aztec village in southern Mexico—so remote, even in this age, that there had been no intermarriage with descendants of Spanish immigrants to the New World, and they spoke only Náhuatl. Nowadays nearly every indigenous inhabitant of the Americas has what is popularly called 'mixed blood', as the result of several centuries of intermarriage, and most of the native languages have died out, except some of those spoken by the largest numbers of people. Quechua in Peru is an example of a particularly tenacious one. Now, Tabitha and her parents, along with their fellow villagers, were finally discovered one day in Tabitha's childhood, and were forced to intermingle with society at large, with no regard for their own culture or language. Eventually I received a petition from Tabitha's father requesting asylum for himself, his wife and daughter, and once I understood the circumstances, I granted it.

"Michiko's recently-arrived cousin and his young son are another example—the man has intimate and detailed knowledge of an otherwise dead language, and I have always had an interest in such things. I try to encourage and support the preservation of endangered entities at all times, whether they be humans, plant or animal species, or even languages. I may also allow immigration due to persecution by others for some very rare characteristic—magical abilities, perhaps, or other badly misunderstood properties. Myeko's parents fell into this category, as they would have been ostracized in their own community due to the provenance of their surname."

Christian nodded. "I understand. I suspect this isn't a secret from the world at large. After all, this is an ideal place, and I have little doubt that there must have been some who would have taken undue advantage."

"That's happened. Leslie can well remember two instances during which the fates of children hung in the balance. In the one situation, the child in question remained here; the other did not. But perhaps you'd prefer to hear the full stories…"


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § -- October 5, 1979

It was yet another sunny Saturday morning on the island, and Roarke and Leslie came out together, dodging the streaming native girls, as usual. They paused at the top of the steps, but there was no sign of the third member of their little party. They both looked around curiously, and Roarke finally called out, "Tattoo? Tattoo, where are you?"

"I'm coming, boss, I'm coming!" Tattoo finally jogged toward them across the porch, just as Roarke was replacing his gold watch in its vest pocket. They looked around to see that Tattoo bore a torch with a lively flame, and was dressed in white jogging shorts, a red tank top and sneakers.

"Tattoo, might I inquire exactly what you are doing?" Roarke asked, frowning at him.

"Boss, isn't this the week of the Fantasy Island Marathon?" Tattoo countered brightly.

"Yes, it is, and this year we have athletes coming from all over the world," Roarke agreed impatiently.

"Right, just like the Olympics!"

"That's right…" Roarke paused, waiting for the punch line.

"And what do they do to start the Olympics?"

"The torch…of course." Roarke shook his head, resigned but annoyed. Leslie grinned.

"Boss, this year I will be the one to open the Fantasy Island Marathon by lighting the Flame of Victory." Leslie could just hear him capitalizing the words, and tried for Roarke's sake to stifle her giggles while Tattoo jogged to a brazier in the side yard and tossed in the torch. Almost instantly two native girls caught sight of the unusually large fire in the brazier and began calling frantically for water. Roarke rolled his eyes, and Leslie winced for Tattoo's sake as the girls splattered water all over the burning flame, dousing it and thoroughly drenching a protesting Tattoo. Roarke finally stifled a smile of his own, throwing Leslie one quick look of mild warning before Tattoo, returning to Roarke's side and muttering irritably in French, caught her in the throes of her mirth.

Roarke carefully injected a dose of sternness into his voice. "Tattoo, if you are quite finished, I suggest you change your clothes…on the _run_, literally…so we may greet our guests." Tattoo looked reproachful at the pun but subsided; after all, he knew full well Roarke had a point, and instantly capitulated.

"Right, boss, on the double." He rushed up the steps and across the porch. Roarke turned in disgust and stared at the still-smoking brazier.

"Flames of Victory, indeed," Roarke muttered, and Leslie couldn't help herself and burst out laughing. Roarke glanced back at her with some exasperation, but her merriment was contagious, and he had to grin in his own turn as the car pulled up to take them to the plane dock.

Once they arrived, Roarke and Leslie got out, with Roarke looking frequently back for signs of Tattoo. For once his assistant had made a beautifully complete rush job of changing his clothing and preparing for his weekend work, although as usual he was driving like a maniac, streaking across the nearby clearing in his little car, scattering screaming native girls. Tattoo screeched to a halt at the dock clearing and clambered out to join Roarke and Leslie. Satisfied, if still slightly annoyed, Roarke called for smiles and motioned the band into action.

They then turned their attention to the plane, where two women climbed out, one blonde, one brunette, followed by a very tall blond man with matching mustache and beard and sporting glasses with thick, square caramel-colored rims. Tattoo peered at them in surprise and remarked, "Boss, they look like a singing group. Two hits and a miss." He promptly laughed at his own joke, while Leslie blinked at him in surprise and managed to kill yet another smile. Roarke, completely unamused, gave him a look, and Tattoo shrugged. "Just a little humor."

"Of course," Roarke replied dubiously and continued: "The young ladies are Miss Gretchen Wasserman—" he indicated the perky-looking blonde— "and her best friend, Miss Bunny Kelly. The gentleman is Mr. Olaf Olafson. All three are co-workers at the Big Beaver Barbell factory in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania." His expression after completing the final sentence made Leslie grin; he looked as if he had barely managed to remember a long soliloquy in the fourth-grade play.

"Big Beaver Barbells? I never heard of it," said Tattoo, perplexed.

"Which is why the girls' fantasy is to sponsor the winner of our Fantasy Island Marathon." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other blankly, and Roarke went on to explain: "Miss Kelly and Miss Wasserman have chosen Mr. Olafson to carry their company banner. They hope to use the resulting publicity to improve the factory's fortunes. Unless business picks up, the factory will have to close, and the girls and their community will go bankrupt." Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other one more time and nodded with understanding; they supposed these three had as good a chance as anyone else.

Then a nurse stepped out of the plane carrying a bundle in her arms, and Roarke announced, "Mr. Patrick Apacarr, all the way from San Francisco, California."

"Patrick Apacarr? Boss, where is he? I don't see him," Tattoo protested, confused.

"He's right there, Tattoo."

"Where?" persisted the Frenchman, squinting past the nurse at the hatch into the seaplane.

"In that nurse's arms."

"You mean the baby has a fantasy? What kind of fantasy could a baby have?"

"One he has no way of understanding now, yet one that could be the most important factor in the rest of his life. He wants to find a home with a loving mother and father."

"You mean he's an orphan?" At this Tattoo slanted a look at Leslie, who perked up. Anyone with a fantasy that contained elements even remotely similar to her own experiences always caught her interest.

"Yes," said Roarke, "his parents were killed in a car crash a month ago. It was always his mother's wish that if anything ever happened to her, little Patrick would be raised here on Fantasy Island, where she herself grew up."

"She lived on Fantasy Island?" Leslie asked.

Roarke nodded and turned to Tattoo. "Do you remember Alicia Macapu?"

"Alicia Macapu? Dead?" Tattoo gaped at him in horror and disbelief. "But boss, she's just a little girl!"

"Little girls grow up, Tattoo," Roarke observed gravely.

Dazed, Tattoo protested, "But boss…I can remember when she…she used to play in the courtyard with the other kids…" Roarke nodded. "Boss, we've got to find her baby the best home in the world." Tattoo sounded so insistent that Roarke and Leslie looked at each other with surprise; but Roarke simply nodded in sympathetic agreement and put an arm around his shoulders. With that, he raised his glass and made his weekly toast; Leslie squinted towards the nurse, very much looking forward to hanging around the baby.

‡ ‡ ‡

"So I guess you were really fond of this Alicia Macapu," Leslie remarked. She and Tattoo had gone to his cottage, where the nurse from San Francisco had brought Patrick while a couple of native men set up a heavy, ornate wooden cradle for the baby. Tattoo sat on his bed holding the infant while he and Leslie were talking.

"Yeah…she was one of the most popular little girls around here during the 60s and early 70s," Tattoo said. "Her parents used to work for the hotel—her father was assistant manager and her mother was in charge of the housekeeping department. They lived in employee housing in town, and there never seemed to be a day that went by without our seeing Alicia. She left the island about six years ago to get married, and then we just didn't hear about her, especially after her parents died. She was an only child and there was nobody else. I can remember Alicia the best of all the kids that were around here back then."

"So I guess there's nobody left in her family who could raise the baby," Leslie remarked, reaching over and gently stroking Patrick's cheek with an index finger. "Hi, little guy," she cooed softly, and the baby beamed up at her, making her grin broadly back.

"No, no one we could find, I guess," Tattoo agreed with a sigh. Just then Mary, a native islander, and her son Kiko came in to put the last of the bedding in the cradle.

"You okay, Tattoo?" asked Mary, a cheerful young woman who was related to Mariki.

"Fine, thanks, Mary." Tattoo smiled at her, rocking Patrick a bit.

"I'll get some sheets on here and we'll be all set." Mary set about making up the cradle; meantime Kiko, about ten years old, came to greet Leslie. She smiled back at him, and he peered at the baby and commented to Tattoo, "Sure is cute."

"He is," Tattoo agreed, smiling proudly down at Patrick.

"Is he gonna stay with you?" Kiko queried interestedly.

"Only at night, until we can find a proper home for him. Your mother's gonna take care of him in the daytime."

"Yeah? That's great! Maybe I'll babysit and make some money. I could sure use it," Kiko exclaimed eagerly.

Leslie laughed. "I don't know about that," she kidded. "Tattoo promised me I could do it if he needs a sitter, but maybe we can make a deal." Kiko snickered.

Mary broke in then, "You're sure you won't mind keeping him here in your place, Tattoo?"

"I'm sure, it'll be all right." Again Tattoo looked down at the baby. "You know, I think it's because I knew his mother." To Kiko and Leslie, he said, "When she was young like you, she used to play outside in the yard, with the other kids. It seems like it was yesterday."

Mary came over and lifted Patrick out of Tattoo's arms. "I'll take him now." Almost immediately the baby started to wail, and Tattoo sat up sharply in alarm.

"What's wrong? Why is he crying? Give him back to me," he ordered, already reaching out. Mary handed Patrick back, and to their surprise the baby settled down and smiled happily up at Tattoo. Bewildered, he stared at Mary and asked, "Why is he doing that?"

Kiko grinned. "Don't you get it? He likes you! He doesn't want to leave you!"

"He likes me?" Tattoo echoed, blinking in amazement.

"Sure! He's crazy about you!" Mary nodded confirmation, and Tattoo chuckled in surprised delight and sat back down with the baby. Leslie tickled Patrick's chin, unable to resist touching the infant's incredibly smooth skin, and he gurgled, making everyone laugh.

‡ ‡ ‡

With Mary having taken charge of Patrick, Leslie and Tattoo headed for the main house. Leslie, who had a book to read for homework that weekend, took up her usual seat beside Roarke's desk, while Tattoo paused in front of it. "Well, boss, Patrick is all set…he's sleeping now."

"Oh, that's very nice, very nice…" Roarke barely looked up from his accounting, swiftly totaling columns of numbers on a small adding machine.

"How's everything doing?" Tattoo asked, leaning over the desk.

"Not too well, Tattoo," Roarke murmured, frowning over the ledger. "Several of these figures don't balance."

Slightly impatient, Tattoo shook his head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about finding Patrick a home." Roarke looked up then and Leslie stopped reading.

"Oh." Roarke cast a glance at Leslie, then cleared his throat slightly. "Well, actually, Tattoo, I haven't had a chance to concentrate on Patrick's fantasy yet. Busy, busy, busy." He gave an apologetic half-smile, indicating the ledger.

Horrified, Tattoo exclaimed, "Boss! You didn't start yet?"

"Well, of course I've started!" Roarke reached for a drawer beside Leslie and withdrew a short stack of papers. "Several people on the island want to adopt the baby and have sent in their applications, you see?" Thumbing cursorily through the sheets, he handed them to Tattoo. "Unfortunately, I haven't gotten around to all of them yet."

Tattoo peered through the pages. "What kind of people are filing the papers?"

"Oh, well, uh…oh yes, the Kohalas sent in an application…"

"You mean the people from the fishing village?"

"Yes, uh-huh…" said Roarke, watching him curiously. Leslie, interest thoroughly piqued by now, set aside her bookmark to listen in.

"Who else?" Tattoo persisted.

"Uh, let me think…the Clancys filled out an application, if I'm not mistaken…"

"You mean…the people who cook for the pond restaurant?"

Frowning in perplexity and disapproval, Roarke asked sternly, "Tattoo, what on earth is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, boss. But how can you know somebody by looking at a piece of paper?" Roarke and Leslie traded glances; both were wondering at Tattoo's single-mindedness over one small boy. "How do we know they're good enough for Patrick?"

"Well, the other applicants are the same kind of people as the Kohalas and the Clancys—honest, hard-working people who live on the island and want to adopt the child."

"I know them, and I love them."

"But…?" Roarke prompted pointedly.

Tattoo's expression was genuinely urgent. "This is too serious to take this lightly. We have to find the best home for Patrick. You said so yourself, didn't you?"

Roarke sat back with mild annoyance. "Did anyone ever tell you you are a terrible nag? Huh?" Leslie laughed aloud and Roarke grinned in response; Tattoo only looked away in exasperation. "But," Roarke went on, "considering your interest, I think I have the perfect solution to the problem. Since you are so anxious for Patrick to find just the right home, _you_ pick the parents."

Astonished, Tattoo stared at him. "Me?"

Still slightly peeved, Roarke demanded, "Will you be satisfied with anyone else's choice? Hm?" Tattoo thought about it while they waited, and once more Roarke, losing patience, prodded, "Well?"

"All right, boss, I'll do it!" exclaimed Tattoo, clearly having warmed up to the idea. "Thank you very much. I promise I'm not gonna let you down, or let Patrick down. I will find him the best home in the whole world." He gathered the papers and made to leave. "See you, boss."

"Yes," Roarke murmured, sitting back, nodding and smiling.

Leslie watched Tattoo stride out the door with purpose in his step, then stared at Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, what's this all about? He's so nutty about getting Patrick the world's greatest parents. I can't understand what the urgency is…I mean, Patrick's mother couldn't've been the only kid he remembered from back whenever. Was she special to him somehow?"

Roarke relaxed in the chair for a moment, considering it. "You do have a point, Leslie, and I admit that similar thoughts crossed my mind while he and I were speaking a moment ago." He smiled, and she grinned back at him. "I know you've seen how well Tattoo gets along with all the island children, but I think there are certain ones with whom he finds a particular affinity. It's been that way almost ever since he first came here to work for me. Actually, in the beginning, they approached him. I think they felt that since he was their size, he wouldn't talk down to them, and they sensed correctly, for Tattoo himself had undergone far too much of that sort of treatment and understood their feelings."

"Okay," said Leslie, "but that doesn't explain why he's…well, obsessed about Patrick. I still think there must have been something about Alicia Macapu."

Roarke smiled a little with reminiscence. "As a matter of fact, Alicia Macapu was a very open child, very bright and outgoing. Her father was the hotel chef at one time and had spent a number of years studying in Paris. Alicia was born here on the island, but from ages two through seven she lived there with her parents. When they returned here and her father received the chef's position, Alicia set about making friends here, and won Tattoo over by telling him where they had just come from. Of course, that was Tattoo's hometown, and he got quite excited that he had someone to share memories of the place with. That gave them a special connection, and it remained strong until Alicia married and left the island."

"Ohhh," Leslie murmured slowly, thinking about it. "I get it now. Well, maybe someday Tattoo'll share his memories of Alicia with Patrick, and Patrick'll have some sense of who his mother was. I think every kid should have that, if it's possible."

Roarke chuckled and teased, "I think you have some sense of empathy with that baby yourself, young lady, since both of you are orphans. You can't tell me you don't and make me believe it."

"Okay, okay. Well, you'd expect that, wouldn't you?" Leslie shot back good-naturedly, and he laughed again and conceded in like spirit. "I just hope Tattoo doesn't get so zealous about it that he decides nobody on the entire island is good enough to take Patrick."

Roarke produced that mysterious smile she'd grown to learn meant he had secrets he wasn't telling. "I have no doubt things will work out exactly as they should. That little boy can hardly lose with Tattoo watching out for his welfare. As for you, I think you have a book to finish reading."

"Yeah, I know." Leslie sighed, but she knew when to give in. At any rate, between her reading and Roarke's attempts to balance the previous month's books, it would pass the time till either Tattoo returned, or the first event of the Fantasy Island Marathon came to an end.


	15. Chapter 15

§ § § -- October 5, 1979

Leslie finished her book before lunch, and at the meal Tattoo joined them just long enough to grab a crab-salad sandwich off the plate on the table. "Gotta run," was all he said. "Sorry, boss…you and Leslie have a good lunch." He rushed off before either Leslie or Roarke could call him back.

"That's what I was afraid of," Leslie remarked. At Roarke's quizzical look, she clarified, "Zealous."

Roarke laughed. "I believe Tattoo would prefer to call it 'dedicated'." Grinning acknowledgement, Leslie took a couple of sandwiches for herself.

After the meal she went out at Roarke's request to get the evening's menu from the hotel (she had high hopes of delegating this task to one of the dining-room waiters, so that she didn't have to deal with that impossible Jean-Claude), but was waylaid on the way by the sight of Mary and her husband, Thomas, whose right leg was encased in a plaster cast; he was using crutches. Together they slowly wheeled a white wicker baby carriage along the lane. They greeted her, and she brightened and fell in at their sides, peering in at Patrick, who was wide awake and playing with a set of colorful plastic keys on a white plastic ring. "Hi, Patrick," Leslie said, waggling her fingers at him, and he rewarded her with a toothless grin and a cooing sound. Mary and Thomas laughed.

"I hope Mr. Roarke got that accounting done all right," Mary said to Leslie. "Mariki mentioned it to me."

Leslie grinned. "It took him a while, but he finally figured out what the problem was. I have to do something at the hotel, but when I get back he's going to take me down to where the marathon bike race is ending. Y'know, it was really weird…Olaf Olafson had to drop out of the race before it even started—some kind of sprain. One of his co-workers took his place. And not too long ago one of the other contestants got back here with a broken bike. I mean, the whole frame was in two pieces. The bike shop in town is trying to fix it, but there's no way he can get back in the race."

"Sounds like bad luck," remarked Thomas. "I can sympathize." He indicated his leg, and they all laughed. Just then Tattoo popped out of the trees at the end of a path and immediately headed in their direction, and they all greeted him.

Tattoo smiled. "Hi, Leslie and Mary. Hi, Thomas, how's your leg?"

"A lot better. The doc said we can go back to our own side of the island soon, and I can go back to work." Thomas and Mary lived in the fishing village; he ran his own boat, but his recent broken leg had necessitated their temporary transferral to the eastern end of the island so that Mary could take on extra work cleaning hotel rooms, the bungalows and, on Mariki's days off, the main house.

"Great." The baby cooed up at Tattoo, and he peered wistfully into the carriage, a worried look on his face.

Mary noticed. "What's wrong, Tattoo?" she asked, with the air of a mother coaxing her child in mild chastisement.

Sighing, Tattoo glanced up at her. "Oh, nothing. I've just been all around the island, talking to people who want Patrick."

"What's bad about that?" Thomas wanted to know.

"Oh, they're all very nice people, and I don't have anything against them…"

"But…" Mary prompted, just as Roarke had done earlier.

Tattoo shook his head a little, gazing down at Patrick. "I don't know if they can afford what his mother wanted him to have."

Thomas said, "That's why Mary and I didn't apply. With me out of work and all, I…" He sighed, looking down at his leg again.

"Well, I know what you mean. You know, some of the people are very nice, but it would take all of their money just to clothe Patrick."

Mary gazed at Patrick wistfully and returned the big smile he gave her. "They'd still like to have him anyway," she murmured.

Just then Kiko ran up brandishing a bill. "Mom, Dad! Look! Five dollars." He turned to Thomas and explained breathlessly, "I sold the ukulele you made for me to a tourist."

Horrified, Tattoo blurted out, "You sold the ukulele your father made for you? For five dollars??"

Kiko deflated. Subdued, he said, "Gee, I'm sorry. But I really want a baseball mitt. All the other kids on the team have one, and…well, I need one."

Thomas smiled a little. "It's all right, son." To Tattoo: "It was his, and he had a right to do what he wanted with it." Tattoo smiled in concession.

Kiko beamed in relief. "Thanks, Dad," he said and ran off, presumably to look at baseball mitts in town.

"Kids," Tattoo said indulgently, winking at Leslie. He gazed at Patrick again, then sighed and spoke to the baby as if no one else were there. "Patrick, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you. Some people can give you one thing, others cannot. But I promise you one thing—I'm gonna do my best to find you the best home in the world. And that's a promise." Mary and Thomas looked at each other, and Leslie pushed her hands into her pockets, peering at Tattoo oddly and wondering what his criteria were for that "best home in the world".

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie and Roarke were amazed to find themselves eating the evening meal without even a token appearance from Tattoo. Roarke had had a fair amount on his mind in regard to the marathon, but now Tattoo's apparent disappearance had him worried.

"Did you finish that book for school, Leslie?" he asked absently as they retreated into the main house in the gradually deepening twilight.

"I finished it before lunch," Leslie reminded him, eyeing him sidelong. "Are you okay, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke looked up and stilled in surprise for a moment, then smiled. "My apologies. But I have suspicions about certain of the participants in the marathon, and I'm afraid it doesn't help to have Tattoo away somewhere and not know where he is." She nodded understanding, and he shifted his attention to the French shutters as a cool breeze eddied into the room. They both smelled rain in the air. "Why don't you close the shutters for me, Leslie, and then you can start going through the latest batch of fantasy requests."

"Sure," she agreed and closed the shutters behind the desk, then sat down. Roarke handed her a rubber-banded pile of mail, and she plucked a letter opener out of a pencil holder and started slicing envelopes. Sorting through request letters from hopeful fantasizers was probably her favorite of all the little tasks Roarke had given to her since she'd come to live on the island.

After about an hour, Tattoo came in unexpectedly and they looked up. Roarke looked relieved and slightly irritated at the same time. "Tattoo, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you."

Tattoo seemed preoccupied. "I've been all around the island, talking to the people who filled out these applications."

"Ohhh yes…" Roarke nodded and relaxed. Maybe Leslie had had something there, he thought, about Tattoo's being a bit of a zealot where Patrick Apacarr was concerned…

"I feel like I've gone a hundred miles," Tattoo commented a bit wearily, "but it was worth it. Now we don't have to worry about Patrick."

Leslie sat up, and Roarke smiled, surprised and pleased. "Really! You've got the right people for him already? Why, that's fabulous! Who is the lucky couple?"

At first Tattoo hesitated, glancing nervously away, then approached the desk, reaching inside his white suit jacket and withdrawing a folded sheet of paper.. "Boss…can I talk to you?"

"What about?" inquired Roarke, sobering at Tattoo's serious, uncertain mien.

There was a strangely pleading look in the young Frenchman's eyes. "About you…about you and me…"

"Hmmmmmm…" Roarke let a long pause elapse; Leslie watched Tattoo finger the page, and she met Roarke's gaze just as he turned to her. A sneaking realization was creeping up on her, and she could see in Roarke's eyes that the same thing was happening to him. "Tattoo," Roarke finally said, startling his assistant into looking abruptly at him with wide eyes, "I think I know what name is on that application."

"Boss…this is my name." He was still hesitant, but very hopeful and earnest. Slowly he handed over the paper. "I want Patrick." While Leslie stared at him, trying to picture Tattoo in full charge of a four-month-old baby, Roarke calmly looked over the page, then rose and went to sit in one of the club chairs. Tattoo followed a few steps, nervously watching Roarke scan the application. "See, I thought about it…about what's the best for him. Why not stay here with me? I mean, he loves me, and I love him…"

"Tattoo…do you actually feel ready for such a step as fatherhood? It's a great responsibility, you know." Roarke looked over at Leslie, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged a little at her guardian's wink.

Tattoo seemed totally unaware of their byplay; his mind was clearly focused on this one thing to the exclusion of all else. "I am, boss. I mean…single people are adopting kids all over the place."

"I see," Roarke mused quietly, returning his attention to Tattoo's application.

"Boss…" Tattoo began, worried. "Is it because of my size?"

Roarke looked up instantly in reassurance. "Oh, no, no, my friend, no." He smiled. "Externals like size are not important, no."

"Then I can be the man for the job! I don't have to be a giant to have a big heart. Patrick will always see me as somebody big, somebody tall."

"He wouldn't be the only one," Leslie commented softly, and for the first time Tattoo seemed to realize she was there, jerking around in surprise and then smiling gratefully at her.

Roarke smiled at her too, then drew in a breath. "Tattoo, if you devote the same amount of effort and diligence to Patrick as you do to your job, then all I can say is…" He smiled, and Leslie sat up straight in astonishment, seeing what was coming. "Congratulations…Dad."

Tattoo's eyes and mouth rounded, and he gasped, thrilled. "Boss! You mean it? I can have Patrick?"

"Of course I mean it, if…that's really what you want."

Tattoo nodded wildly, looking ready to burst with happiness. "Excuse me, boss, I've gotta go…I've gotta tell Patrick." He rushed to the foyer, then paused to look back at Roarke. "Boss? Today is the best day in my life. Thank you…thank you very much." Roarke smiled again, and joyfully Tattoo hurried out the door.

Roarke looked at the application again and frowned in concern. "Well," he said softly. "That's a turn of events I must admit I did not anticipate."

Leslie giggled. "You mean Tattoo managed to surprise you?"

Roarke gave her a look of mock reproach. "Even I can't know literally everything at all times, Leslie," he said, and she grinned. Sobering, Roarke went back to the application, flipping it over for a second or two as if there were something on the back, then slowly folding it. "Let's find out whether he truly understands what an enormous job he's in for, or if he's merely attempting to honor the memory of Alicia Macapu."

§ § § -- October 6, 1979

The following morning dawned sunny and clear after a long rainstorm the previous night, and while Tattoo was out with Patrick, Roarke took Leslie with him to a small beach surrounded by high cliffs, where the previous day's only event had ended yesterday and where today's events would begin. The only way off the beach—for the marathoners, anyway—was to climb ropes right up the sheer side of one of the cliffs. Once Roarke got the race underway, he and Leslie stood back and watched while the remaining contestants started hauling themselves up the cliff, hand over hand, bracing their feet in holes in the rock. All of a sudden, about halfway up, the climber from Kenya tumbled back down to the sand. Roarke paused to look back, frowning; as he examined the frayed end of his rope, Leslie thought she heard him say in disgust, "It was cut!"

"Did he say something?" she asked her guardian hesitantly.

Roarke nodded. "Yes, child, I heard it."

"Then you were right, last night at supper when we were talking about the marathon. Somebody's been cheating, haven't they?"

"Indeed so—there can be no other conclusion," Roarke agreed, placing a hand on her back and ushering her along toward the steep path carved into the rocks, which they would use to get back to the Ring Road and the rover that waited there for them.

Leslie stared up at him in disbelief. "But you can't let them get away with it, Mr. Roarke!" she burst out. Roarke shushed her quickly and she lowered her voice a few notches, but she was still outraged. "Can't you stop the race, or disqualify someone?"

"Leslie, you know full well that Miss Kelly, Miss Wasserman and Mr. Olafson are counting on this race to help them save their employer. There isn't time to begin again from the beginning."

"But—" she tried to protest.

Roarke stopped her near the top of the trail and shook his head. "Besides, I am not certain of the identity of the cheater," he said pointedly, and realizing the difficulty of his position, she finally subsided with reluctance. "The only way I can catch the person responsible is to wait for further racers to be eliminated, however distasteful you and I may find the prospect. Now I suggest you calm yourself, young lady, and try to turn your attention to other matters. All right?" He smiled to soften the remonstrance, and she shrugged in defeat and climbed into the front passenger seat of the car.

They returned in time to join the last throes of a big party in celebration of Tattoo's adoption of Patrick. The event was being catered by Maureen's mother's company, and since Maureen was always part of the crew whenever her mother had a job on weekends, Leslie gravitated toward the buffet tables and spent a few minutes talking to her friend. Roarke checked in with his assistant for a moment, smiled down at Patrick and then excused himself to get back to work. Leslie, having filled a plate, bid Maureen goodbye for the moment and drifted over to where Tattoo stood with the baby carriage, in time to hear a young native woman ask, "Tattoo, can I take Patrick for a walk?"

"Not right now, but if you don't mind, would you give him his bottle, please?" Tattoo requested, reaching into a large and well-packed diaper bag at his side. Leslie supposed he'd spent all morning in Amberville buying essentials for Patrick, and shook her head to herself at the money he must have spent.

"Sure," the native girl agreed, "and when I come back, I could see if Patrick needs a change."

"Maybe, if you're real careful." Tattoo noticed Leslie's faintly rebuffed look and grinned good-naturedly at her. "Oh, calm down, you'll get your turn. I promise, you can be Patrick's regular babysitter." She chuckled at that and tickled Patrick under the chin; the baby cooed and kicked his feet.

Mary and Thomas came up to them just then, both beaming, and Mary said, "Oh Tattoo, I'm so happy for you."

Thomas added, "Me too. I'm sure Patrick will make you a proud father."

Tattoo smiled. "I hope so."

"With me not working yet, I couldn't afford to buy him anything, so I made this myself. Hope it's okay." Thomas handed over a small hand-carved outrigger about a foot long, complete with sail, and Tattoo accepted it, eyes widening in wonder.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" he exclaimed, examining it from all angles. "I'm sure it's gonna be the best present he ever had."

Mary smiled. "Congratulations again on becoming a father. I bet you're gonna make a great daddy."

"I hope so." Tattoo hesitated a moment, peering up at her. "Mary, can I ask you a question? You have a lot of kids. What does it mean to you to be a parent?"

"Gee, that's a tough one, Tattoo. Well, I guess for starters, it's the most wonderful job I've ever had." She considered the statement for a moment, then smiled faintly at some memory. "Um…maybe I can explain that a bit better. A long time ago, when Kiko was just a little boy, he got lost at the Fantasy Island carnival. Oh, we looked for him everywhere. Well, finally I found him, and he was crying his heart out. He was so…lost, and alone…well, Tattoo, when he looked up and saw me, well, the expression on his face would have told you everything there is to know about being a mother."

"Mary, that's a beautiful story. Thank you both." Patrick gurgled as if in response, and they all grinned, unable to help themselves. Tattoo looked up at Leslie and remarked, "There's just something about a baby that always makes you smile, isn't there?"

"Yeah…up till they need a diaper change," Leslie cracked, and Tattoo rolled his eyes while Mary and Thomas laughed. "Oh, come on, I'm just kidding. When you're ready to take him for a walk, Tattoo, can I go too? I got done with my stuff for Mr. Roarke, and I don't really know what to do."

"Okay, sure. I might even let you push the carriage if you're good," Tattoo teased. "Relax for a few minutes and enjoy your food there. I'll let you know when I'm ready." He turned curiously to Mary and Thomas. "What happened to Kiko?"

"Oh, he got involved in a ball game with some of the kids around this area. He's really into baseball," Thomas observed. "I wish I could afford to get him a good mitt, but they just cost so much. Maybe once I get back to work, we'll have a little extra money and I can get him one then."

"He probably already did," Leslie remarked, "after what we saw yesterday. Next thing you know, he'll be the first big-league all-star from Fantasy Island." Thomas grinned at her and patted her shoulder in appreciation.

About twenty minutes later the party wound down for good and the caterers began breaking down; Leslie waved at Maureen and followed Tattoo along the lane towards a path that would lead to town. The elementary school for students on the eastern end of the island was located about half a mile outside town limits, and it was there that they came upon what turned out to be the final play of a game on the school's baseball diamond. They strolled leisurely in that direction, watching one boy on the offensive team whack a wicked line drive straight to center field. To their surprise, they recognized Kiko—curiously bare-handed—bracing himself for the catch, but the ball had too much speed and power. Even from some distance away, Leslie and Tattoo heard the painful smack as the ball hit Kiko's unprotected palm and dropped into the grass. Kiko winced and shook his hand hard. The defensive team groaned, and Kiko hurriedly scooped up the ball and hurled it toward second base; but the boy was safe, and the winning run had already been batted in.

The game broke up and kids began drifting off the field in pairs or groups, talking animatedly. Leslie belatedly recognized the batter as one of Myeko's younger twin brothers, who were the same age as Kiko; she had trouble telling them apart, but she knew the Sensei boys were mirror-image twins. So as soon as the boy mockingly stuck out a hand at Kiko to shake, saying, "Thanks for the win, pal," she realized it was Tomi. Kiko turned away, cradling his hand.

The girl who had been playing third base came up to Kiko and said disgustedly, "I don't know why they let you play in the first place. Without a glove, you're about as much good as a screen door on a submarine…"

Tattoo and Leslie finally caught up with the group of kids and spoke right up, annoyed for Kiko's sake. "Hey, kid, why don't you be quiet. Too bad you can't hit as well as you talk. Go on, go home." The girl recognized him, looked alarmed and broke into a run; satisfied, Tattoo put her out of his mind. "Kiko…I thought you were gonna buy a glove."

Kiko winced and hung his head, subdued. "Couldn't do it."

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, frowning, and Tattoo said, "I don't understand."

"Well, my little brother Tommy…he's back home on our side of the island. Anyway, he needed new shoes so he could start the first grade."

Leslie nodded understanding, figuring Mary or Thomas must have brought it up with Kiko; but Tattoo was astonished. "You're kidding. I mean…I thought that a glove was all you ever wanted."

Kiko shrugged and insisted, "I don't mind, really. Tommy's my brother. And maybe someday when I need help, somebody'll help me out. That's what being a family is all about." He glanced wistfully once at the diamond, then turned and plodded away by himself.

Patrick cooed just then, and Tattoo sighed. Contemplatively he murmured, "Patrick…maybe money isn't everything after all." He looked up at Leslie. "You think?"

Leslie tipped her head aslant and regarded him curiously. "Is that really why you wanted to adopt Patrick? Because you have enough money to give him stuff like baseball mitts and Big Wheels and fancy sneakers?"

Tattoo stared at her. "I know I can give him everything he needs, and he deserves things like that…" His voice trailed off and he gazed after Kiko's retreating figure. "Just look at what Kiko's going through because his parents haven't got the money to give him that sort of stuff. I know, I know…they're wonderful people and they really try their best, but they just don't make a lot of money. I didn't want Patrick going through the hardships that poor families endure. Alicia's son deserves all the best things it's possible to give him." He stopped, looked after Kiko again, then frowned. "But after what Kiko just said…I don't know anymore. I…"

He was silent for long enough that Leslie prompted, "Are you okay, Tattoo?"

Tattoo started, then blinked at her and shrugged. "I don't mean to be rude, but…I'm sorry, Leslie, I just need some time to be alone, okay? Maybe you could tell off that little boy, your friend's brother, if you want to. I saw the look on your face a minute ago."

Leslie grinned. "It's tempting, but he's just a brat. Even Myeko says he isn't worth it. Okay, I'll go on back. Whatever it is, I hope you get it all figured out." Tattoo smiled at her, and she grasped Patrick's tiny hand for a moment. "See you later, Patrick. Don't let anything happen to Tattoo, now, okay?" Patrick chortled and kicked his feet, and she chuckled and headed back the way they had come.


	16. Chapter 16

§ § § -- October 6, 1979

Leslie returned to the main house and found herself busy with a new batch of mail; she got so absorbed in reading the various request letters that she completely lost track of time and her surroundings. When Roarke said, "I wonder what happened to Tattoo?" it startled her immensely, and she looked up.

"Why, what time is it?" she asked. Roarke gestured at the clock, and she blinked in amazement. "My gosh, I thought he'd be back by now…"

"Do you know something?" Roarke asked her.

"Well, I left him with Patrick at the elementary school near town. Mary and Thomas's son Kiko was over there playing a ball game and we caught the end of it. It's funny, Kiko didn't buy a glove with that five dollars he got for his ukulele. He used it to get shoes for his little brother instead, and I guess that started bothering Tattoo."

Roarke nodded thoughtfully. "I see. All right, then, why don't we go and look for him. It's past time for him to sign these papers."

They eventually found Tattoo at the lagoon with Patrick still in his carriage. He stood hanging over the side of the carriage, staring at the baby, with a glum look on his face. Roarke called, "Tattoo! You were supposed to be at the house an hour ago for the signing of the adoption papers."

Tattoo barely glanced up. "I know, boss…but I wanted to be away. I wanted to be by myself."

"But doesn't the signing of those papers mean a great deal to you?"

"Yes, it does. It does, but…I don't think I'm ready to sign them now."

"Oh, well, I understand, you're nervous. Anyone would be if they were about to become a father."

"Oh, it's not that, boss…" Tattoo shifted restlessly, and Patrick sensed it, burbling. Leslie went over and lifted him out, settling him on her arm so he could see around him.

"Well, then," Roarke said, "what exactly is troubling you, Tattoo?"

"Well, you remember when I told you that here on Fantasy Island, I could give Patrick everything he needed?"

"Of course I remember. Here we can give the boy everything money can buy. A fine house to live in, the best schools to go to, and all the luxuries we can bestow on him." Roarke smiled in Leslie's direction; she was absorbed in amusing the baby and didn't notice.

Tattoo followed his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Boss, I was wrong. I thought that all the things that money could buy were the important things. There is something I cannot give Patrick."

"And what is that?"

"A mother…a sister or brother…a family!"

Roarke knelt beside the carriage, absently fingering the blanket inside. "Yes, I must admit, there is no substitute for a mother's love…even here on Fantasy Island."

"Boss, I love Patrick more than anything in the whole world. But he needs a home—every kid needs a home. I know that, 'cause I was a kid too. When the others used to kid me around, I knew I could go home. My mother never made any difference between my brothers or sisters. She made me happy; she made me feel good. She made me feel like I belonged. I want the same thing for Patrick."

"I see. Do you have a particular family in mind, Tattoo?"

"Maybe." Tattoo looked at Leslie and the baby again; Patrick had laid his head on Leslie's shoulder and was just then indulging in a huge yawn. Leslie looked up and tuned in to the conversation. "I don't want to give him away," Tattoo said plaintively, "but I want what's best for him. Oh boss…I'm all mixed up…I don't know…what should I do?"

Slowly Roarke arose and mused, "Well, it is said that the greatest difficulty we have in our lives is making choices. And I'm afraid, my friend, that this choice is for you and you alone to make." He smiled. "It appears to me that Patrick is ready for a nap. Why don't you let Leslie bring him back with us—he should sleep fine in the carriage, and you'll have a chance to concentrate without distractions."

"Yeah," Tattoo mumbled, almost inaudibly. Roarke wheeled the carriage away, and Leslie fell into step beside him, still carrying Patrick. The infant relaxed on her shoulder as they walked, and about halfway back to the house, Leslie looked down and noticed he had fallen asleep.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke, look," she whispered, enchanted. Patrick's little fist had curled around a handful of the fabric of her dress.

Roarke checked on Patrick and smiled. "Something tells me that young man will be spending his entire nap on your shoulder," he said teasingly, "or am I wrong?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Well, I don't get many chances to hold a baby. Only the Ichino quads, maybe once in a blue moon. And he's just so cute, hanging onto me that way…it'd be awful to wake him up just to make him let me go, wouldn't it?"

Roarke laughed. "Yes, I think so too, but you may feel differently by the time we're back."

As it turned out, by then Patrick needed a diaper change, and that put Leslie out of her element; fortunately, Mary was just finishing her cleaning in Roarke's study, and she grinned when Leslie explained the problem. "Oh, and you're not too overjoyed about dealing with dirty diapers," she said.

"I think I'd rather wait till I have my own kids," Leslie said, relinquishing the still-slumbering baby, and Mary laughed softly with understanding and settled Patrick into the carriage, wheeling him off toward Tattoo's cottage.

"Well," said Roarke, "while Tattoo is thinking things over and Mary has charge of Patrick, I suggest you and I check into the marathon."

"What's the word?" Leslie asked, following Roarke out and down one of the paths leading into the jungle.

"I'm told we are down to three contestants," Roarke told her. "Miss Kelly, our guest; the American competitor, Eugene Bodine; and Bruno Gratz, the protégé of Dr. R.M. Funk." The doctor in question was a noted figure in sports medicine; but he was as notorious as he was famous, and Roarke had decided to let him enter his contestant in hopes of teaching the doctor a lesson somehow.

"Three out of six?" Leslie asked, startled. "I know one's bike was broken, and then the rope got cut—"

"Yes, Freddie Hunsacker from Great Britain lost his bicycle," Roarke explained. "A rope was found looped around a seat support, causing the entire frame to come apart. And of course, you witnessed our Kenyan contestant, Kintata Muluku, with the rope that was cut. Now I've learned that the Russian entry, Boris Shmolentz, was eliminated due to a malfunction in his hang glider, and examination has shown that it was deliberately tampered with."

"I can't believe you don't know who did it," Leslie said, staring at him.

"I do now," Roarke said. "And that's why we're leaving early for the marathon finish. If I let this continue, Dr. Funk and his protégé will win dishonestly, and I think it's time to turn the tables on them."

"How?" Leslie asked eagerly.

Roarke grinned. "Bear with me and I'll show you," he promised, and she snickered with anticipation, staying close behind Roarke as they walked.

About a mile away from the finish line—which was situated in the lane near the main house—Roarke and Leslie came upon a white sign, lettered in red, "FANTASY ISLAND FINISH LINE", posted at a fork in the path. A red arrow outlined in white was mounted on the signpost just below this, on a large white peg, pointing to the right-hand fork. "What're you doing?" Leslie asked.

Roarke glanced behind them; as yet there was no sign of the remaining racers, but somewhere in the near distance they could hear the faint purr of a car engine. "We'd better hurry." He reached for the arrow, neatly rotating it on the peg so that it now pointed to the left instead. "I hope I'm right," he murmured, casting one last glance back.

"I get it," Leslie whispered, barely restraining a giggle. "Gosh, I hope you're right too." Roarke grinned and gently nudged Leslie back into bushes, where they hid to watch.

They didn't have to wait long. Sure enough, Dr. Funk appeared in a dark green Mercedes convertible that he'd inadvisedly driven right up the path. He pulled the car to a stop some yards from Roarke and Leslie's hiding place, checked quickly around him, and scuttled over to the sign, where he turned the arrow back to what was actually the correct position. Then he hid behind another bush across the path, while Roarke smiled faintly and Leslie hid a big grin behind her hand.

All three looked on as Eugene Bodine, popularly known as the "Clean Machine", and then Bunny Kelly came jogging down the path. Bodine hesitated at the sign, glanced behind him, then broke back into a run; a moment later Bunny Kelly plowed determinedly past them, eyes fixed straight ahead and a little bit glassy with fatigue. Roarke nodded slightly in satisfaction.

Then Funk stepped out to meet Bruno, just charging their way, and changed the arrow back to point the way Roarke had first altered it, still unaware he was being observed. "I believe this is the correct path to victory," Funk smugly informed his burly, oversized protégé.

"What about the others?" Bruno Gratz wanted to know.

"I'm sure Mr. Roarke will send out a search party for them. After all, it is a nasty bit of jungle they mistakenly ran into…" The two of them cackled together; then Bruno lumbered away down the wrong path, with the overeager Funk hard on his heels. Roarke grinned, and once they were out of sight he tugged Leslie out from behind the bushes. She started giggling helplessly.

"You seem rather gleeful, young lady," Roarke teased her.

"I just love it when bullies and cheaters and creeps get what they deserve," Leslie chortled, and Roarke laughed and guided her back along the trail at a brisk walk—taking care to change the arrow back to the proper direction first, of course!

As it turned out, the remaining two—Bunny Kelly and the "Clean Machine"—both managed to go down, even without the interference of Dr. Funk. Bunny collapsed first, and Eugene, backpedaling his way towards the finish, tried to encourage her—only to tumble head over heels himself after tripping on a branch protruding in the path. He staggered back to help Bunny to her feet as Roarke, Leslie, the other spectators and Bob Seagren watched, the latter man providing excited, rapid-fire commentary.

To their amazement, the two of them limped to the finish line together and jointly won the marathon, and Roarke presented them with a trophy. Leslie let her gaze drift away down the lane, wondering whether Tattoo had finally come up with some decision. She had seen the tormented look in his eyes back at the lagoon, and wished she could have figured out some way to help him decide.

They didn't see Tattoo till that evening at the supper table; he was subdued, his eyes downcast. "Are you okay, Tattoo?" Leslie asked.

Tattoo looked up as if startled, then shrugged. "Well…I guess so." He caught sight of Mana'olana wheeling the dinner cart out, and winced a little. "I don't think I have any appetite."

Roarke paused and stared at him; Leslie sat down, looking worried. The cook frowned. "Oh, now, Mr. Tattoo, that isn't right," she protested. "It's bad enough I constantly have to coax Miss Leslie to eat, without you following her example."

Tattoo finally laughed a little at the dirty look Leslie shot Mana'olana. "Oh, all right." But he didn't say any more till the cook had retreated to the kitchen and they were eating; then Roarke and Leslie both trained expectant gazes on him. It took him a minute to notice, but when he did, he looked up with a frown on his round face. "What?"

"Don't keep us in suspense, Tattoo," Leslie urged. "What're you gonna do about Patrick?"

Tattoo sighed, looking deflated. "I'm gonna let Thomas and Mary take him," he said softly. "It'll be hard on them financially, but…I can help Patrick, I made Mary promise to let me, if he ever needs it."

"You already spoke to Mary?" Roarke asked.

Tattoo nodded. "I just came from the bungalow where she was staying. I just feel as if Patrick's the son I never had…that I almost had. But he needs both a mother and a father, and he needs brothers and sisters, and lots of love—that's what they have to give him, and that's the most important thing."

"You love him too," Leslie said, tipping her head aside.

"Oh yes, I do," Tattoo agreed with feeling. "I really do. But…well…it's just that this is the right thing for Patrick, when you get down to it."

"I don't think you'll regret your decision at all, my friend," Roarke said warmly. "It takes a great man to be as unselfish as that, and that deserves congratulations too."

§ § § -- October 7, 1979

Mary was waiting at the main house the next morning, sitting on the side of the steps. "Well, ready to leave, Mary?" Roarke inquired, coming down the porch from the breakfast table with Leslie.

"Yes, I'm just waiting for Tattoo," Mary explained.

"Oh. Where _is_ Tattoo?"

"He's in his cottage…he wanted to say goodbye to Patrick alone."

"Oh, I see…" Roarke smiled and exchanged a glance with Leslie.

"Mr. Roarke, how did you always know he was going to give us the baby?" Mary asked curiously.

"Well, I felt he would, after he had thought it over. You see, Tattoo is a very kind man, and I always knew he would do what was really best for the baby." Mary nodded, smiling agreement.

After they had bid Gretchen Wasserman, Olaf Olafson, Bunny Kelly and Eugene Bodine goodbye at the plane dock, Roarke turned to Tattoo and offered, "Well, my friend, shouldn't we wave goodbye to our other fantasizer?"

"Patrick? But he's already gone," Tattoo protested.

"Almost. But perhaps there's still time for one final look, if we hurry."

The three of them took a car to the mouth of the small river that nearly bisected Fantasy Island into two segments; there was a line of rocks that acted almost as a harbor before the river waters emptied into the Pacific Ocean. They stood in a row, watching the outrigger carry Mary and Patrick down the inlet to the ocean, where they would head for their home on the other end of the island. They waved solemnly at the passing figures, and could see Mary, standing in the front of the boat, waving back.

Suddenly Tattoo murmured, "Goodbye, Patrick…son. Always remember I love you." Mary raised Patrick's arm to make him wave as well; they could just barely see the baby in her arms. Roarke and Leslie gazed sympathetically at Tattoo; he had tears in his eyes, but he never took his gaze off the boat as it made its way into the ocean.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

"Ah," Christian murmured, when Roarke and Leslie fell silent. "So I presume this was the child he named his own son after, a few years later."

Leslie nodded. "He never specifically said so, but Father and I always figured he was honoring his friend Alicia Macapu's little boy."

Roarke smiled and took up the supplemental narrative. "I understand that Tattoo left a sum of one thousand dollars for Patrick upon his passing, for the boy to receive when he reached his twenty-first birthday. I've since heard that the young man used that money to buy his own fishing boat, and runs a very profitable little business on the western end of the island, employing several of his peers in the fishing village. He's very happy, I'm told."

"You're told?" Christian echoed.

Leslie grinned. "Patrick's the same age as the quads. They went to junior high and high school together, and Jonathan and Jeremy are still friends with him. They hang out sometimes on their days off—at least they used to, before Jeremy got married and Jonathan got himself involved with Ingrid. Last I heard, they've been twitting Patrick about finding himself a nice island girl and settling down."

They laughed, and then Christian cleared his throat. "Before we go on to your other story, I was just thinking. Whatever happened to that little car you often speak of Tattoo having driven? Surely he didn't take it to France with him when he and Solange were married."

"No, that remained here," Roarke said, chuckling. "It's been in storage for many years, but the maintenance people take good care of it, and they make sure it's regularly driven. Perhaps one day, your own son will be interested in that car. I suspect Tattoo would have approved of it going to Tobias."

Christian looked dubious. _"Herregud._ Not if he drives it the way you say Tattoo did." This time their laughter was louder, and eventually Christian arose. "Forgive me, I'm afraid I need to tend to certain necessities. Too much sangria." He grinned and headed for the stairs.

Alone for the moment, Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "Father, do you ever think about that woman and that little girl?" she asked.

"Very rarely," Roarke said. "Why? Did it upset you that much that you missed out on possibly having a little sister, as you once did?"

She shrugged and aimed a sheepish look at him from under her bangs. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose it might have been nice, but I remember the spats some of my friends had with their sisters, especially in our late teen years. Not so much in Michiko's case with Reiko or Kayoko—they were a few years too far apart—but Myeko thought her sister Sayuri was a pest, and Lauren had her share of problems with her sister Deborah. And sometimes Camille talked about having those problems with Andrea. You know, shared bedrooms, borrowing clothes without permission, stuff like that. Maureen and I used to think we probably had it pretty good, being only children for all intents and purposes."

"Does she still feel that way?" Roarke asked. "I understand she has two much older brothers who remained behind in Romania when her parents left, brothers she has never met."

"I don't know. She never talks about it," said Leslie. "I know about her brothers only because she told me about them when she and I first met each other, but in all the years since then, she's never spoken of them again. Sometimes it makes me wonder if something happened—a rift in the family or something."

"Perhaps one day they'll be reunited," Roarke said, just as Christian came back down the stairs. "For the moment, however, our audience has returned, so perhaps once Christian has settled himself, we can regale him with our other tale."

Christian sat down beside Leslie again. "I look forward to this. I hope it has as happy an ending as Patrick Apacarr's story did."

"Well, for a while we weren't too sure," Leslie admitted with a smile. "I was almost seventeen and used to being what amounted to an only child, and then one weekend a woman showed up with her little daughter and pretty nearly shattered our peaceful existence around here…"


	17. Chapter 17

§ § § -- February 6, 1982

They met Tattoo on the steps as always, and Roarke paused long enough to ask him, "Have you seen Julie?" It was the year she was working with them, alternating weekends with Tattoo.

"Oh yeah. She's still working on that 'Custer's Last Stand' fantasy," Tattoo said.

"Custer's Last Stand…oh yes, yes, of course. How is she progressing?" Roarke inquired.

For answer Tattoo turned to stare into the lane, and a moment later a riderless horse, saddle studded with arrows, came galloping down the lane and past the house, vanishing into the trees while they stared. Roarke cleared his throat. "Well, we'll proceed without Julie…she may be delayed for some time."

"At the very least," Leslie muttered. "I sure hope she wasn't the one on that horse." Both Roarke and Tattoo gave her sharp looks, and she quirked her mouth to one side and followed them to the car.

At the plane dock they greeted a man who wanted to meet and work with a fictional detective of Roarke's choice; then an attractive golden-haired woman with a light-blonde little girl stepped out of the hatch, both decked out for the occasion of their trip in pretty dresses. The child's was pink with frills and white lace trimming; the mother was more conservative, in a simple, solid-colored dress with a thin belt. Both seemed happy, though the child was more delighted than her mother.

"That's a cute little girl," remarked Tattoo. "Is that her mother with her?"

"Yes, Tattoo, that is Mrs. Fran Warner and her daughter, Nancy. An adorable child…as you can see, she has her mother's good looks."

"Indeed. Mrs. Warner looks very familiar…"

"You have an excellent memory, Tattoo. She was a guest on the island almost seven years ago. She's just as lovely today as she was then."

"What's her fantasy?"

"I don't know, Tattoo."

"What?!" Tattoo blurted, astonished. Both he and Leslie stared at Roarke in disbelief, and Leslie found herself wondering why Roarke would allow someone on the island without knowing what their fantasy was. She hadn't sorted fantasy request letters in months now, due to the unusual amount of schoolwork she had this year; so she had no memory of seeing Fran Warner's letter.

"She would say only that she would tell me at the proper time, in the proper place," Roarke replied simply, and was saved from having to explain any further by the arrival of his champagne flute.

After Roarke had sent their detective guest into his fantasy, which involved going back to late nineteenth-century London, he brought Fran Warner to the pond restaurant, along with Tattoo and Leslie. They were promptly shown to an empty table for four, and Roarke seated Fran before settling down beside Leslie's chair. "You know," he observed, "I am at a considerable disadvantage. If I am to fulfill your fantasy to your satisfaction, I must make certain preparations. Isn't that right, Tattoo?"

"Right, boss," Tattoo agreed, and Leslie nodded, wary of the odd, shuttered look on Fran Warner's face.

"But first," Roarke added, "I must know what you have in mind."

Fran looked grim and almost hostile. "Yes, I imagine you would." Roarke's smile died into confusion.

Tattoo caught the tense undercurrents in the air. "Boss, I think Mrs. Warner would like to talk to you privately in your office," he suggested tactfully, and looked to Leslie as if to get up.

But Roarke demurred. "No, no thank you, Tattoo, I'd prefer discussing it right here."

"If that is what you wish," Tattoo said, shrugging. "Proceed, by all means."

Fran Warner never took her eyes off Roarke. "I didn't come to this island for a fantasy. Right now what concerns me is reality, a very special reality."

"May I ask what that means?"

Fran's expression grew even more hostile, and angry in the bargain. "I came to find out whether you, her father, are prepared to take the responsibility of our child!" Heads turned at her loud voice.

"Boss!" Tattoo's mouth and eyes became three circles. Stunned, Leslie felt her stomach turn, and she stared at Roarke, whose face registered surprise for just a moment before he controlled his expression.

Roarke rose then. "Please, I think it would be best if we discussed this matter privately."

Fran got up too, but she made no other move except to speak, in a louder voice than before. "Why? I don't care if the whole world knows about it. I can't keep quiet any longer." By now everyone in the restaurant had turned to stare, and some people were talking softly. Leslie tried to shrink in her seat while Fran Warner deliberately addressed the other diners. "This man is the father of my child, and I'm here to make sure he assumes his responsibility. Now that it's public knowledge, I will expect to hear from you soon." Having delivered this final announcement, she took her leave without so much as a farewell.

Grimly Roarke sat back down. Tattoo was outraged. "Boss, how can you let her get away with it—in front of all these people?"

Quietly Roarke assured him, "She's not getting away with anything, Tattoo."

"No??" Tattoo demanded, clearly not believing it.

"No way she isn't," Leslie said, surprised to hear her voice shaking a little. "Look, everybody's staring. She made good and sure everybody in here would hear what she said, and they'll spread it all over the island. She's going to get away with slandering you, Mr. Roarke."

But Roarke shook his head. "No. I have a feeling she is simply doing what she feels she must do." Tattoo shook his head in confusion, Leslie was completely bewildered, but she could feel other emotions rising at the same time: embarrassment, anger, and even jealousy. Roarke urged her and Tattoo back out of the restaurant along with him; but dozens of eyes followed their retreat, and Leslie hung her head to avoid seeing them, her face so hot she thought she must be getting feverish.

Outside the restaurant Roarke turned to them. "Tattoo, I think you and Leslie should take care of the routine rounds. You can drive, Leslie." He handed her the keys to the rover. "I'll be at the house in case you need to call me for any reason."

They nodded and watched him walk away down a trail that would eventually put him on the patio behind the main house, then grew aware of hushed voices around them and turned to see people passing them on their way elsewhere, casting them speculative looks. "Let's get out of here, Tattoo," Leslie said abruptly, heading for the car without looking to see if he was following her.

Incredibly, in the time it took them to drive to the hotel for a room list and that evening's dinner menu, some vacationers had managed to make it back there and plant a few seeds of gossip among the staff. As Tattoo and Leslie walked through the lobby toward the dining room, one of the front-desk clerks called out, "Miss Leslie, Mr. Tattoo! Has Mr. Roarke met his daughter yet?"

Tattoo stopped dead and Leslie followed suit. Flatly Tattoo said, "She's not his daughter."

"Oh, come on," scoffed the clerk. "I hear everybody at the restaurant heard it straight from the kid's mother, and I know a waiter there who's worked there forever and remembers her from when she was last here, years ago. Who'd've thought Mr. Roarke'd be dallying with his guests, huh?"

"He didn't," Leslie snapped, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "He wouldn't do that."

"Looks to me like he did, at least this once," the clerk said, smirking. "Guess you're gonna have a little sister pretty soon."

"It's a lie, and you can tell every other big-mouthed gossip the same thing," Leslie shot back. "Come on, Tattoo, let's get to the dining room before somebody else with too much time to waste starts flapping his gums and spreading these lies." Tattoo nodded agreement, and they stalked off to the dining room.

Unfortunately, the entire waitstaff had heard about it too, and even Jean-Claude couldn't resist making a comment that prompted Tattoo to say something very curt and rude-sounding in French. Leslie was hard-pressed to hide a grin when Jean-Claude's eyes widened and he turned bright red. Tattoo nodded to her and she readily followed him back out, getting a room list from a less talkative front-desk clerk.

An hour and a half later, having almost completed their rounds, they were both exhausted from dealing with the constant and endless remarks, made with knowing grins at the minimum and smirking, lewd innuendo at the worst. "Gossip really does travel faster than light," Leslie said glumly, piloting the rover down the Ring Road toward the pineapple plantation. "Geez, I'm glad it's Saturday, or I'd be getting flak from every kid at school."

Tattoo shook his head. "Dealing with all these petty gossips makes me feel like I'm back in high school myself," he complained. "I'm sure by now the whole island knows all about Mrs. Warner's lie. We might as well brace ourselves. Good thing this is our last stop."

As it happened, quite a few high-school kids, mostly boys, worked at the pineapple plantation on weekends—and not just kids from Leslie's grade, but from the entire student body. Because she was Roarke's ward, everyone in school knew her. A group of them were on a break when she and Tattoo walked into the offices to find out how much fruit would be available for the month, and they stared at her throughout. But no one spoke till Tattoo had gotten the information and arranged to pick up ten crates of pineapples later that day; then, as they turned, one of the boys called out, "Hey, Hamilton…when's Mr. Roarke gonna kick you out of his house, huh?"

Shocked, Leslie came to a dead halt and gaped at him. She barely felt Tattoo touch her hand, thought he'd whispered something but had no idea what. All her attention was on the boy. _"What?"_ she croaked.

"Aw, c'mon, don't tell me you don't know about his kid," the boy smirked, and his companions all laughed. "Guess that's the end of your life of privilege. Now that his real kid's come here to live with him, he doesn't need a hanger-on like you. You're just his ward, right? So when's he throwing you out?"

"Who you gonna live with then?" another boy asked.

The boy beside him elbowed him. "Where d'you think, moron? She'll be going to the orphanage then." More laughter followed that.

"You sure are a bunch of big strong guys, aren't you?" Tattoo suddenly demanded scornfully. "Seven or eight of you against one girl. Wow, that's real courage in action, all right." The boys looked at one another, most of them with uneasy expressions on their faces. "Leave Leslie alone. In the first place, the whole thing's a cruel lie. And in the second place, it's none of your business anyway, so why don't you shut up and finish stuffing your faces. Come on, Leslie, ignore them."

She followed him in a haze, half stumbling, when he tugged on her hand to get her to move. Outside, he stared at her worriedly in the sunshine. "Leslie, you're as white as your dress. Are you okay to drive?"

She looked up at him finally with tears in her eyes. "Why, _why_ do people always have to be so cruel?" she asked helplessly, her voice wobbling. "It's not fair, Tattoo, people are so mean and sick. And it's all that Fran Warner's fault." She swallowed thickly and hung her head, trying to battle back her emotions; but the first boy's taunts had planted a seed that wouldn't be washed away by a few angry tears. "Please let it not be true," she muttered.

"What?" Tattoo prompted, frowning.

"Tattoo…what if…what if she wasn't lying? What if Nancy really is Mr. Roarke's daughter?" Leslie finally asked, her voice quavering. She saw outrage cross his expression and shook her head. "I wasn't here seven years ago. I don't know what could've happened, you know."

"Well, I was," Tattoo said, glaring at her. "You can take it from me. Nothing happened between them!"

"I don't want it to be true, don't you get it?" Leslie shrieked finally, the dam breaking. The morning's tension had finally become too much for her. "I don't _want_ it to be true. But everybody else on the island believes her instead of Mr. Roarke. If she gets her way, next thing you know Nancy's going to be living with him, and she'll get the privilege of calling him Daddy and everything else. All I am is his ward, Tattoo. I'll just be second-class, just like when he married Helena and Jamie was really her son and he was going to consider him his son too, but they never—"

Tattoo grabbed both her hands in his. "Leslie, you need to calm down," he said as sternly as he could. "Even if Mrs. Warner's accusation were true—and it's _not_—you'd have nothing to worry about. The boss would never, ever throw you out. He didn't throw you out when he married Mrs. Marsh, and he wouldn't throw you out now. He made your mother a promise and he always keeps his promises. I thought you knew the boss better than that by now."

Leslie dissolved into sobs finally. "I just don't want it to be true," she blubbered helplessly.

"Well, it's not," Tattoo informed her, "so get that out of your head right now. You know the boss would never take advantage of anybody that way. It's the other way around—that woman's taking advantage of him. We know the truth, and I think everybody else knows it too, but they want to have some fun at the boss's expense. And those boys, well, you don't pay any attention to them. They don't even know what they're talking about. Bunch of cowards, they'd never come up to you all by themselves and say things like that. They were so scared of you they had to gang up before they attacked you."

"Oh, Tattoo," Leslie scoffed, backhanding tears away.

"It's true," he said stubbornly. "That's the way bullies are. They're really afraid of people, but they want attention, so they pick on other people to get it. They're just shooting their mouths off, and anything they say isn't worth listening to. You just remember that. Now come on, let's get back to the main house."

She made an effort to calm down and managed to get them back on the road home without incident, but was silent for the better part of the trip. Not far from town, though, she finally looked at Tattoo and said in a small voice, "I know it's not true, what Mrs. Warner's saying. I…just panicked."

He smiled at her. "I know. Too many people spreading lies, those boys saying those cruel things…I know, it just tore you up. Don't worry about it, I know you didn't believe it."

She sighed, a long shuddering sigh. "I feel like it's us against the world."

Tattoo smiled faintly. "I know exactly what you mean." He sighed. "Well, I guess you could talk to the boss about it…"

This plan backfired when they found that Roarke was out. "That figures," Leslie muttered. "Well, I'll be in my room if anybody needs me." With that she headed upstairs, leaving Tattoo alone in the study.

Roarke had been attending to some matters at the island's casino, and fortunately it didn't take too long before he returned through the French shutters. "Oh boss, I'm glad you're here," Tattoo said with relief as he walked in and sat down.

Roarke was all business. "Is something troubling you, Tattoo?"

Tattoo rounded the desk, trying to get his boss' attention. "Everyone on the island is talking about you and your daughter."

Roarke nodded, going through a short stack of papers. "And I suppose you've been denying it," he said without looking up.

Tattoo scowled in disbelief. "Of course! _Some_one has to."

"Well, I appreciate your concern, my friend, but please, stop defending me." He was matter-of-fact, almost curt; he knew Tattoo was bewildered and upset, but he himself had quite a bit on his mind, and preferred not to think about Fran and Nancy Warner till he really had to.

"But boss!" Tattoo protested insistently. "You don't understand. You should hear what they are saying!"

"Don't worry, Tattoo, you should know by now that idle gossip doesn't concern me." Roarke glanced up once, but he was still all business.

"I can tell you who it does concern," Tattoo retorted easily. "Leslie." This time Roarke looked up and held his gaze, a slight frown on his features.

"What about Leslie? What happened?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, plenty." Tattoo related the story of what had happened at the pineapple plantation. "It really bothered her, boss…"

Roarke sighed gently and went back to his papers. "I'll talk to her later. I'm afraid that just now I have a great deal of things that take priority."

Tattoo clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels and toes. "I don't think that's a great idea, boss," he warned in a light singsong.

Roarke shot him a remonstrative look. "If you don't mind, my friend, I will handle the problem my own way, in my own time. I am not neglecting Leslie. She understands full well what this business entails, and I won't fail to find a few moments to speak with her."

"Okay." Tattoo gave in on that one, but he couldn't seem to let it lie. "But there's something else you should know."

Exasperated, Roarke dropped a hand from his head to the desk and turned to him. "What is it?" he prompted, trying to hold onto his patience.

"Mrs. Warner," Tattoo said gravely. "I saw her go to the pharmacy."

Roarke sat back, annoyed. "Oh. And what was she doing there?" He normally wouldn't have asked, but he knew Tattoo would tell him anyway.

Sure enough, his assistant replied, "She was buying a lot of prescription medicine."

Roarke frowned at him. "I hope you weren't following her."

"Well, I wasn't trying to…" Tattoo began sheepishly.

Roarke decided he'd heard enough. "I want you to leave Mrs. Warner and Nancy to me. Will you?"

"I'm sorry, boss," Tattoo said contritely. "I was just trying to help you."

"I know you are, Tattoo, I know you are." Again he lifted a hand to his forehead and sighed. "I am very worried about that little girl."

Tattoo gawked at him, shocked. "You…you mean…she's your daughter?" Roarke just eyed him. Stunned, Tattoo put one hand to his mouth, staring at him as if expecting a denial after all. But Roarke had had all he could take of the subject. Let Tattoo and everyone else on the island think whatever they would. He knew the truth, and he knew that Fran Warner also knew the truth; and as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing that truly mattered.


	18. Chapter 18

§ § § -- February 6, 1982

Because of the various business matters that were making demands on his time, Roarke didn't find an opportunity to talk to Leslie. However, he did at last get a taste of what she and Tattoo must have gone through while making rounds. He had just left the bank with a deposit and was on his way to the pond restaurant, through a green clearing on the outskirts of town, around which were clustered the island's library, pharmacy, and Hall of Records. He happened to glance over and see Fran Warner leaving this last building, and paused to watch till she had hurried away—after glancing from side to side in a strangely secretive motion.

He had told Tattoo not to follow the woman, but what he had just seen told him that Fran had to be pretty serious about foisting her daughter off on him, if she had business in the Hall of Records. So he went in to find out what she had done. As he came in he noticed the lone clerk checking through a file cabinet. "Mrs. Benton, may I come in?" he inquired politely.

She turned, a middle-aged woman wearing a sensible blue dress. "Of course, Mr. Roarke." Her husband was career military, stationed on Coral Island, and she had children and grandchildren; she also had an old-fashioned sense of what she thought was right and wrong. But he remained calm and came in.

"Thank you," he said politely, closing the door.

"What can I do for you?" Mrs. Benton inquired. He could already see the curiosity blooming across her face.

"The lady who just left here…Mrs. Warner," said Roarke, coming straight to the point. "Would it be proper for me to ask what she was doing here?"

The judgmental light came on in Mrs. Benton's eyes and she peered at him over the tops of her reading glasses. "Normally these are private matters…"

Roarke nodded. "Oh, I know—that's why I ask."

She studied him with a smarmy, knowing smile. "Well, since you're, uh…shall we say, intimately involved…she came here to place your child's birth certificate on record with us." Roarke caught a slight emphasis on _your_. She was still smiling in that knowing way.

"I see," was all he said.

"She also inquired about enrolling the child in school; I had her fill this out." She withdrew a slip of paper and handed it to Roarke. Across the top was printed the words ENTRANCE APPLICATION; in the blank for the name of the child was written in block letters, _Nancy Roarke_. Roarke frowned slightly. The slip was dated that day and showed an address in San Francisco. The child's birthdate was given as June 28, 1975, which meant she wasn't yet seven years old. Roarke stared at the little girl's name as Fran Warner had written it, and didn't fail to note that at the bottom of the page, she had put down his name as Nancy's father.

Roarke abruptly gave the paper back. "Thank you, Mrs. Benton."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Roarke," the woman said in a sticky-sweet, obsequious tone. She took the slip back, but paused before refiling it, eyeing him with a knowing look and that persistent smug smile. Roarke stared back and, to his own surprise, nearly reacted; then he reminded himself silently that none of this was worth it and simply departed, shaking his head once just slightly.

On his way to the pond restaurant to complete the business he had originally been on, he remembered what Tattoo had told him about Leslie's encounter with the high-school boys at the pineapple plantation and considered his assistant's description of Leslie's reaction. _"She just turned pure white, boss. I never saw anybody so shocked in my life. I think you better tell her the truth about Nancy Warner, because she was afraid those boys were right and you'd be throwing her out."_ Roarke shook his head again, exasperated. It was bad enough that people were making snide remarks, bad enough that the word had clearly spread all over Fantasy Island by now. But for Leslie to believe that of him…

He conducted the needed transactions with one corner of his mind—not failing to note the sidelong glances and speculative looks of the whole staff and those diners who were already there for lunch—and with the rest, thought about Leslie. By the time he had returned to the main house, he had a better grasp on how he intended to handle the situation. Tattoo was out, but Leslie ought to be around—at least he hoped so.

She was. She sat in her narrow little window seat, just large enough to accommodate her when she drew up her feet and hugged her knees, and had rested her forehead atop those knees, her long straight hair forming a partial curtain around her. "Well," said Roarke.

Leslie gave a huge start and nearly fell off the seat. "Omigod, Mr. Roarke, you scared me to death," she gasped, tucking some hair behind her ear with a shaky hand.

"I'm sorry," he said with a little smile, coming in and settling down in her rocking chair. Turning it to better face her, he took in her pinched expression. "So you're hiding out, are you?"

"It's the only place on the whole island where I could go and not have people asking nosy questions or saying mean things," she said dully. "And not have kids from school making fun of me…"

"Yes, I heard about that little encounter at the plantation," Roarke said. "I wanted to talk to you about that. What in the world made you think I would ever evict you from this house, even if Nancy Warner truly were my child?"

She turned very red and hung her head. "I wish Tattoo hadn't told you about that," she muttered. "Anyway, he scolded me enough for it already. Please don't put me through another lecture about trust."

He had to laugh at that. "I daresay such a lecture would fall on mostly deaf ears," he remarked lightly, and grinned at the face she made at him. "For both our sakes, I'll skip it this time. Tell me, do you know the boys who spoke to you?"

"Not all of them. Only a couple of them were in my grade. Most of them were native islanders. The one who asked when you were throwing me out…he's a twelfth-grader, a real jerk. I think Michiko would know what his name is, because if I remember right, he's friends with her brother Toki." The mention of Michiko reminded her of something else and she looked pained suddenly. "Oh wow, what if my friends decide to believe all this awful gossip people are spreading?"

"Then they were never truly your friends, Leslie," said Roarke gently. "True friends will stand by you throughout any difficulty, I'm sure you know that by now."

She nodded glumly and heaved a sigh. "What is it about people, Mr. Roarke? How come they always want to spread bad news and ugly rumors so fast? Good news never travels like that, just bad."

Roarke considered this question for a good half-minute or so, then shook his head. "In all my observations of the human race over the years," he mused, "that's one mystery I've never been able to solve. The only thing you personally can do, I'm afraid, is to refrain from stooping to that level yourself. Don't add to the numbers of petty gossips who refuse to find a more productive way to spend their time. Hold yourself to a higher standard, and when you feel the sting of such unsubstantiated rumors, hold your head high—for you know the truth of the matter."

Leslie met his gaze head-on at that point and asked straight out, "Nancy Warner's not really your daughter, is she, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke smiled at her. "No, Leslie, she isn't," he said. "But as I told you, and as Tattoo told you, even if she were, you would still have a place here. Don't forget, I made your mother a promise. Tell me, have you come of age yet?"

Leslie rolled her eyes. "You know I won't even be seventeen for another three months," she pointed out.

"Exactly," he said, smiling. "But, more than that, you're free to remain until the day comes when you want to leave…"

She broke in, "What if I never do? What if I stay here forever?"

"That's your decision," said Roarke evenly, still smiling. "The point, my dear Leslie, is that you'll be welcome. Now, does that reassure you, after what was suggested earlier today?"

Leslie had to grin. "Yeah, I feel a lot better now." She got up and came to him, and he arose to catch and return her hug. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke, thank you."

"Of course, sweetheart," he said quietly, and she warmed somewhere deep inside. It wasn't too often they exchanged this sort of affection—almost a father-daughter sort of thing, something she had never really known but had wondered at. Oh, she remembered parental affection all right. Her mother had tried hard to make up for Michael's lack of care for his girls, always hugging and holding all three of them when they'd let her. Kristy had needed it most, Kelly the least, and she herself…now she wished she had let Shannon hug her even more often. If she'd known what was going to happen, she definitely would have. Yet, despite her mother's permanent absence and her lack of experience with whatever bond fathers and daughters might have, she found herself wishing deep inside, where she didn't dare give the feeling any words, that Roarke had been her father and not Michael Hamilton. She didn't say so, of course, but merely enjoyed the feeling of being loved by…well, the closest thing she had now to a parent.

‡ ‡ ‡

Shortly before lunch, Roarke went alone to the Warners' bungalow and knocked, waiting for a moment, listening for footsteps within. It took a moment to get a response, and when Fran opened the door, her startled look told him she hadn't been expecting him at all. "Oh."

Roarke was cool; for once he let some of his true emotions show, feeling curiously justified after the trouble she had caused for him, Tattoo and Leslie. "I'm sorry, is this an inopportune moment? I thought you had asked me to come."

"Uh, no—yes—please come in." Flustered, Fran stepped aside.

"Thank you." He stepped in and she followed him down the few steps into the bungalow's main room, where he paused, waiting. She stared back, then jolted slightly and finally said, "Uh…won't you please sit down."

"Thank you." Roarke sat and waited again, unwilling to make things easy for her for some reason.

"Could I offer you a drink?" Fran inquired, audibly nervous.

"No, no, thank you very much."

Hesitantly she drifted toward the back of the cream-colored sofa. "I…hope you understand that Nancy means more than anyone else in the world to me."

"Of course I understand." He remained cool and reserved, but spoke politely all the same.

Fran drew in a breath, then blurted out, "And I'm…I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of all those people out there."

"Are you?" Roarke couldn't resist asking, in a very chilly voice. "Or did you have it planned that way?"

She sighed in conciliation. "Yes, I suppose I did. If I could only make you understand why—" Just as she spoke the next-to-last word, a door opened, and a small voice interrupted, "Mommy?"

Fran whipped around, and the blonde little girl Roarke remembered from the plane dock came out on a run, then stopped the second she spotted Roarke. Nancy stared and Roarke looked back, unsmiling but carefully schooling his expression into something warmer and a little more open. Then Nancy approached him and asked, "Are you my…daddy?"

Roarke started to deny it, then caught himself as Nancy looked at Fran. He followed her gaze and saw that Fran looked almost pleading. Nancy hung back at a polite distance, clearly sensing their hesitation, and held out a hand as if to shake. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Roarke sat forward at this and smiled at Nancy. "And I am very pleased to meet you."

That was all it took for Nancy to light up. "Oh Daddy, I'm so glad you're here!" She launched herself into his arms and hugged him exuberantly, and Roarke cradled her head, caught quite off guard and beset with strange emotions. "Mommy's told me so much about you."

At this Roarke looked at Fran. "Has she?" Without waiting for any response from Fran, he turned to Nancy and said, "Well, the important thing is, you are here, and I have lots of things planned for you. As a matter of fact, I have a friend outside who would like to spend some time with us. Would you like to see him?" Nancy nodded eagerly. Fran looked on with a touch of consternation, emotion welling up rapidly. "Well, go ahead," Roarke urged, gesturing to the door.

Nancy ran to open it, only to see a small horse not far away across the lane. "A pony!!" She raced back to Roarke and leaped into his arms. "Can I ride him?"

"Well, he would be insulted if you didn't!" Roarke teased her cheerfully. "How about after lunch?"

Thrilled, Nancy nodded hard. "Mommy, I better change right now so I'll be ready!"

"That's right!" Roarke agreed. He put her down and she headed for Fran, took her hand and started back to the bedroom. Halfway there, Nancy turned suddenly around and said happily, "I'm so glad we're all together. Now it's just like a real family." With that, she pulled loose and trotted into the bedroom. Fran and Roarke stared at each other, she rather embarrassed and a little concerned, he chilly at first, then regretful. Finally he turned and left, far more disturbed than he'd expected to be.

After lunch, Fran came over without staying herself and dropped Nancy off at the main house, where Roarke had brought the pony; Leslie was lingering in the study, sorting mail and separating outgoing envelopes to take to the post office. She looked up when Nancy came in all by herself, and Roarke stood up. "Hello, Nancy, are you ready?"

"Uh-huh," the child said proudly. She was decked out in an honest-to-goodness riding costume and her hair was arranged in two high ponytails above her ears, in a style Leslie remembered her mother using on her and her sisters years ago. "Do you like my outfit?"

"It's very pretty," Roarke said obligingly. "Leslie, would you like to come with us?"

Surprised, Leslie stared at him in amazement for just a moment, then nodded instantly. It was the spurt of jealousy deep within her that did it—the knowledge that Roarke was deliberately spending time with this child who wasn't even his. She knew she was too old for that sort of petty emotion; but it wouldn't be denied, and she had no intention of giving up the chance to spend time with her guardian herself. "Sure, that sounds like fun," she said. "Maybe we can drop all these letters off at the post office while we're out."

"Excellent," said Roarke warmly, and Leslie was glad she'd accepted. She hurriedly finished sorting out the outgoing mail, then joined Roarke and Nancy.

Nancy peered curiously up at her as they crossed the porch. "What's your name?"

"Leslie," she said. "Mr. Roarke's my guardian, and I live with him."

Nancy squinted in perplexity and then asked Roarke, "What's a guardian, Daddy?" Leslie winced slightly, and at the same time she saw Roarke hesitate for a bare half-second before regaining his usual composure.

Roarke smiled at Nancy. "A guardian is a person who takes care of a child whose parents can't do so any longer," he explained. "Leslie's mother and father died several years ago, and her mother asked me to take care of her till she is grown."

"Oh," said Nancy, nodding sagely. "I'm sorry your mommy and daddy are gone, Leslie."

Leslie smiled, surprised to find herself liking this little girl. In some ways Nancy reminded her of Kristy. "Thank you, Nancy," she said. "You know, I also used to have two sisters, twins. Their names were Kristy and Kelly. You kind of make me think of Kristy when she was really little."

"I do?" Nancy asked in surprise. "How?"

"You look a little bit like her, with your doggie ears," Leslie said softly.

Nancy giggled loudly as they descended the porch steps and stopped beside the waiting pony. "Doggie ears? What's that?"

Leslie laughed, shaking aside the memory of the twins as kindergartners, and sifted one of Nancy's ponytails through her fingers. "This. That's what my mother used to call ponytails like yours."

"That's funny," Nancy chortled delightedly. "I like you, Leslie. Maybe you can be my big sister. I always wanted one."

Taken aback, Leslie blinked at her, then smiled and shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe," she hedged quietly, but she could feel her face getting warm. She shot Roarke a glance and was reassured by his warm smile of approval.

"Well," Roarke said, "let's have that ride, shall we?" He boosted Nancy onto the pony and took its reins to lead it along, while he and Leslie strolled along the lane together. They talked here and there as they made their leisurely way to town, and pretty soon Leslie and Nancy were getting along surprisingly well, clearly amusing Roarke. Leslie wondered whether he really did approve of hers and Nancy's amity, or if he was just keeping up the façade for Nancy's sake.

In town Leslie ducked inside the post office long enough to put the outgoing letters in the mail, then came out just in time to see Michiko, Myeko and Lauren standing in front of the café, staring openly in their direction. Roarke noticed too. "Would you like to join them?" he offered.

About to say no, Leslie was cut off when Michiko waved at her and called her name. She hesitated, looked at Roarke. "I really don't know…"

He smiled reassuringly. "It's all right if you'd like to spend some time with them, Leslie." He lifted his eyebrows in suggestion, and she read the unspoken message: _Now is the time to face your friends, my child_.

She repressed a sigh, unwilling to show her uncertainty around Nancy for fear of miring herself in a long round of sticky questions. "Well, okay, if you're sure you don't need me for anything," she said hopefully.

"Not at all, you can take a couple of hours," Roarke said with a smile. "Enjoy yourself."

She threw him a _yeah, right!_ look, but pasted a smile on her face anyway and nodded. She was convinced that even Nancy detected the false quality of the cheer in her voice when she said, "Okay. See you later, Nancy."

"Bye, Leslie," Nancy called out as she headed down the covered wooden walk that fronted the shops. She could hear the clopping of horseshoes behind her as she reluctantly approached her waiting friends.

"So is that the kid who's Mr. Roarke's daughter?" Myeko asked as soon as she got within earshot.

Leslie stopped short and stared at her, and instantly Michiko jabbed Myeko in the ribs with an elbow. "Where in the world did you get that big mouth of yours?" Michiko scolded before turning to Leslie. "Come with us, we were just about to go into the pedestrian section and get some ice cream. And anyway," her voice softened even as she shot Myeko a warning look that made the latter girl redden, "we were hoping we'd get the chance to talk to you."

"I guess that's why you were hanging around in town, then," said Leslie guardedly. The girls never did anything like that; they usually spent weekends at one another's houses, from her extremely limited experience. It was the rare weekend when Roarke didn't need her for much of anything and she had a chance to hang out with the other girls.

Myeko and Lauren looked guiltily at each other, and even Michiko turned pink and cleared her throat. "The fact is," Michiko said determinedly, "we wanted to get the right information, right from the source. All we've heard is rumors, and we figured you must know the truth."

A sense of relief shafted through Leslie, and she smiled for the first time. "Well, yeah, but I don't know if we should talk about it in public…"

"Well, Mr. Roarke doesn't seem to care," Lauren pointed out, "since he's out and about with you and that little girl. There's probably no other place on the whole island as full of people as the town square."

Leslie had to concede to the truth of that. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She took a breath, aware of their eager, expectant eyes on her. "Her name's Nancy Warner…and no matter what everybody's saying, she isn't Mr. Roarke's daughter. Her mother's trying to pull one over on us, but we haven't figured out why."

Michiko nodded instant and full acceptance. "I sort of thought so myself. It just made me mad after Toki came home and said that awful Caleb Kohala was making fun of you at the pineapple plantation this morning…talking about throwing you out of the main house and all that horrible stuff."

Leslie made a sour face. "Toki needs to develop better taste in friends." The girls all laughed, and she finally relaxed. "But Mr. Roarke explained it—he told me flat out that Nancy isn't his daughter."

"Well, then, how come he's squiring her all over the place and treating her like she is?" Myeko finally asked. "You'd think he'd steer clear of her if she really isn't his kid."

Leslie shrugged. "You know how Mr. Roarke is. The epitome of hospitality and all that. Well, I mean, he's not exactly warm to Mrs. Warner, not after the way she accused him…"

"Accused him?" Lauren broke in. "How?"

"I was there," Leslie said gravely and explained to her friends the initial scene in the pond restaurant that morning. They listened with round eyes and open mouths, exchanging frequent glances of amazement, and when she finished, they all groaned and shook their heads.

"That's just low," Myeko said, with all the indignation of someone whose best friend had been cruelly wronged and who was going overboard to show her loyalty. "About the lowest thing there is."

Leslie stopped on the brick pedestrian walks and looked straight at her. "You yourself believed it," she said, unable to keep back a hint of accusation from her voice.

Myeko sighed. "Okay, so sue me," she muttered. "Michiko said it herself, I've got a big mouth. I'm sorry, Leslie. But man…I had no idea this guest of yours was taking the trouble to make sure everybody knew about it. The _whole_ restaurant?" Leslie nodded, and Myeko blew out a breath. "Cripes, no wonder the whole island knew inside of an hour. I know you guys greet your guests pretty early on Saturdays, and the breakfast crowd must've still been filling the place."

"Yep. I didn't see an empty table in the whole dining room," Leslie said through a sigh. "And you know how people are—they'd rather believe the worst about someone than the best. It's amazing how you can live your whole life just as clean as anything, get the respect of everybody you know, and then one person comes along with one false accusation and just like that, you're totally ruined. Who cares about all the good things Mr. Roarke's done here?" Her voice turned bitter and sarcastic. "Geez, now a woman says he's the father of her illegitimate kid, he must be some kind of selfish creep."

"Oh, Leslie, you know people are idiots," Lauren said a little impatiently. "It's just human nature, that's all. People just love to talk trash about other people, because it makes them feel like they're better than them."

"Is that what it is?" Leslie asked, staring at her. "People are talking about Mr. Roarke, and Caleb Kohala says cruel things to me, just so they'll feel superior?"

Lauren shrugged. "That's what my mother's always told me."

Michiko said urgently, "Leslie, don't listen to them. They're all petty morons who have no clue what they're talking about and don't care. They wouldn't know the truth if it were a land mine and they stepped right on it. The ones who really count here are you and Mr. Roarke and Tattoo—and that little girl. Since she isn't his kid, he must be protecting her—giving her some happy memories, so that the garbage other people are spouting won't hurt her."

"I think you're right," Leslie said, entering the ice-cream shop with the other girls. "But what happens later, when her mother's forced to tell her the truth? Or worse, when Mr. Roarke himself has to do it." Her friends had no answer to that, and could only look at one another again in silence.


	19. Chapter 19

§ § § -- February 6, 1982

Late that afternoon Roarke made a series of phone calls while Leslie sat near the desk, again sorting through mail; then he left her in charge while he made a quick checkup on their other fantasy. He had spent quite a bit of time with Nancy Warner that day and wanted to be sure things were caught up before he took any more time with her.

But when Leslie heard him talking to someone he addressed as "doctor", her interest was piqued. "What's going on, Mr. Roarke?" she asked when he'd hung up.

Roarke smiled. "I have a hunch concerning Mrs. Warner. When I visited her in her bungalow, at the time I first formally met Nancy, I gleaned certain…let's call them sensations. I want to make some confirmations to that end, so I'm flying the doctor here at my own expense to be certain I have the full and correct details. Just a few precautions." He patted her shoulder, and his dark eyes acquired a twinkle. "Are you finding any particularly interesting fantasies in that batch of letters?"

"A bunch," Leslie said, grinning at him. "There always are."

There was a knock on the door and, at Roarke's summons, Fran and Nancy Warner came in. Nancy beamed at sight of Roarke and Leslie. "Hi, Daddy and Leslie," she called gaily, skipping into the room, missing the adults' and Leslie's reactions. "Whatcha doing, Leslie?"

"Just going through some mail," Leslie said, setting aside the envelopes. "Hi, Nancy."

Fran was staring on in surprise. "I didn't know you already had…" she began, addressing Roarke, and then let the sentence trail off, as though she wasn't sure how to finish it.

"Mrs. Fran Warner, this is my ward, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke said, combining the introduction and explanation. "She will be seventeen in May and has lived here with me for about three years."

"Leslie's going to be my big sister, Mommy," Nancy chirped, and Leslie threw Roarke one astounded glance before covering it, afraid Fran Warner would notice.

"I see," said Fran, her gaze warming a little. "It's nice to meet you, Leslie."

"Hello, Mrs. Warner," Leslie replied politely, still off-balance from Nancy's comment about becoming her sister. "Nice to meet you too."

Fran nodded, then cleared her throat. "I just need to do…some shopping," she said, floundering slightly. "I thought Nancy would enjoy staying here with you for a while."

"By all means, Mrs. Warner," Roarke replied graciously. "She will be here when you return."

"Have fun, Mommy," Nancy said brightly, and Fran waved at her daughter and made her exit. Nancy promptly turned to Leslie. "When you went to see your friends, Daddy brought me back here and let me swing on that swing across the lane, and then we had a little snack…"

Leslie blinked. "Really?" Roarke wasn't given to snacking, and she turned a surprised gaze on him.

Roarke laughed. "Henri, Jean-Claude's friend who's been working temporarily at the pond restaurant while the Clancys are on vacation, brought us some soup to sample."

"Daddy said there wasn't enough pepper at first, but I thought there was too much," Nancy broke in excitedly, "and when I said that Daddy found out I was right after all. That cook walked away kinda mad, but it was really funny."

Leslie snickered. "I bet," she agreed. "If Henri's a friend of Jean-Claude, they must have pretty similar personalities. Wish I could've seen his reaction."

On Roarke's chuckle, Nancy pleaded, "Daddy, can Leslie play with me? She said she's just sorting mail, and that doesn't take very long, does it?"

"No, not very long at all," Roarke said indulgently. Leslie, more perceptive than Nancy, saw his gradually increasing discomfiture at Nancy's persistence in calling him "Daddy", and smiled at him. He smiled back and urged, "Go ahead, Leslie. If you like, you could take Nancy to the pool or one of the beaches."

"I won't keep her out too long," Leslie promised. "I figure Mrs. Warner won't be gone much more than an hour, so we'll be back pretty soon." At Roarke's nod she turned to Nancy. "How about the beach? You could collect some shells there if you want."

"That sounds like fun!" Nancy agreed happily, and slipped her hand into Leslie's when the older girl stood up. Surprised, Leslie smiled down at her, startled anew by the reminder of Kristy, and led the little girl out of the study while Roarke watched.

After supper Tattoo headed back to his cottage for the evening, and Roarke caught the distant mien around Leslie. "Is everything all right? You didn't mention how things went with your friends this afternoon."

Leslie looked up. "Oh, it's not that. The girls stood by me, just like you said. They just wanted to get the right information from someone who'd know the truth, that's what they told me. And when I explained it to them, they accepted it. No, that isn't what's bothering me."

"Good, I'm glad to hear about your friends. Then what's the matter?"

"Nancy," Leslie said slowly, meeting his gaze with a wistful look in her eyes. "She keeps reminding me of my sister Kristy."

Roarke's gaze softened. "In what way?"

"Kind of a lot of them," Leslie admitted, sighing and propping her chin in her palm. "Not so much in looks. Nancy doesn't look anything like Kristy and Kelly. But she has some of Kristy's personality."

"Tell me," Roarke suggested.

"She's so bright and cheerful, for one thing. Once she and I got to know each other a little bit, next thing you know she was acting a lot like Kristy used to do. I mean…when Michael got overly loud or mad, and Mom wasn't available for some reason, Kristy would come to me. She was timid anyway, and Michael's being a creep just made it worse, so she hated being by herself. She needed a protector all the time."

Roarke nodded when she paused. "Go on."

Leslie searched her memory, trying to find the right words to fit her recollections. "When things were good, Kristy was as happy as Nancy always seems to be. She was always doing like Nancy did earlier this evening—the way Nancy came up to me and put her hand in mine, right before we left for the beach. That's what Kristy would've done. She skips like Kristy did, and she speaks right up the same way Kristy used to do—wanting to be part of the conversation, you know…"

"I understand. That explains the startled look you gave me when Nancy told Mrs. Warner you were going to be her big sister," Roarke mused. He focused on her. "Does it bother you to spend time with Nancy?"

"No," Leslie said quickly. "But I guess I'm just wishing she weren't so much like Kristy. It's funny, Nancy doesn't make me think of Kelly at all. Kelly was sort of Kristy's polar opposite, personality-wise at least. Kelly was fearless, nothing scared her. She was full of bravado all the time. She'd have hung back and got everybody's measure, like you say, before she started trying to make friends. For all her brave front, she didn't trust anybody. Michael did as much a number on her as he did on Kristy and me." She shrugged. "Anyway, if I didn't know that Nancy was born way before the twins died, I'd think she was Kristy reincarnated, some way."

Roarke nodded slowly and smiled at her. "I suggest you simply enjoy your time with Nancy, and try not to think about the future. I've set some things in motion, and tomorrow I think we'll finally have some answers to this entire conundrum. For now, why don't you relax."

§ § § -- February 7, 1982

Most of Sunday passed uneventfully, except for Roarke making fairly frequent forays into their time-travel fantasy. Leslie played with Nancy here and there, and both girls spent some time with Roarke and Tattoo. At lunchtime, though, Fran insisted that Nancy eat with her, saying she had missed the little girl and wanted to have some time with her as well. Nancy cheerfully agreed, and Roarke and Leslie had lunch at the main house while Tattoo was out doing various rounds and eating along the way.

When they finished, they came into study only to find Tattoo there with a strange man. Tattoo looked up when they entered the inner foyer and said, "Boss, this is Dr. Randolph, Mrs. Warner's family doctor."

Roarke nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, I know, I asked him here from the mainland. Thank you for coming, doctor." They shook hands and Roarke introduced Leslie. "I appreciate your coming on such short notice."

"Not at all. I only wish I had brought you some good news," Dr. Randolph said

Tattoo and Leslie both perked up their ears at this. "Is Nancy sick?" Tattoo asked.

"I don't think it's Nancy, Tattoo," said Roarke. "I think it's her mother. Am I right, doctor?"

Dr. Randolph nodded quietly. "Yes."

"Is it serious?" Leslie asked, very startled.

The doctor looked at her, Tattoo and Roarke in turn, then admitted, "It's very serious, I'm afraid. She doesn't have much longer to live."

Leslie's eyes got huge with shock, and Roarke slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in against his side. "I see," he said quietly.

Tattoo stared at Roarke, dawning comprehension written all over his round face. "Now I see why Mrs. Warner brought Nancy here. If she's dying, then she wants to be sure Nancy is raised in the best possible place to grow up. Just like Leslie."

"Precisely, Tattoo," Roarke said with the slightest of smiles. "Excuse me, doctor, but you see, Leslie has been my ward for the past three years, and is here because of the deaths of her own parents. In fact, Leslie and Nancy have developed something of a friendship since the Warners' arrival here."

Dr. Randolph grinned. "That's very nice of you to take little Nancy in hand that way, Leslie. I expect it took a load off her mother's mind, knowing she was in good hands." She smiled, and he turned his attention to Roarke and cleared his throat. "If it's all right with you, Mr. Roarke, I'd like to get my records together and check through them—"

"Of course, Dr. Randolph. We have a hotel room available for you where you can freshen up and take all the time you need to gather your information. When you are ready, you need only call here and I will send a driver out to pick you up."

Dr. Randolph nodded agreement. "That would be perfect, Mr. Roarke, thank you. I appreciate your getting in touch with me. Mrs. Warner missed an appointment Friday, but I didn't realize it until yesterday, because Friday was such a hectic day for me. Your call came at exactly the right moment, and under the circumstances I was more than happy to make the trip here."

"Good," said Roarke. "Then we'll see you at your leisure."

When he was gone, Leslie slowly sank into the nearest chair. "Oh, wow. So Nancy's mother's dying too." She stared unseeingly at the front of Roarke's desk for a moment while he and Tattoo came to stand one on either side of the chair; then she looked up. "What about Nancy's dad? I mean…I know it's not you, Mr. Roarke, but obviously somebody must have fathered her."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, but he evidently isn't in their lives, or none of this would have come about in the first place. And I expect their parting wasn't at all amicable, or Mrs. Warner would have attempted to track the man down rather than try to pass off the fiction that Nancy is my daughter." He smiled at Leslie. "But don't jump to conclusions just yet—you either, my friend." He included Tattoo in his look. "Once we hear from Dr. Randolph, we will decide what to do from there."

Randolph returned to the main house about six-thirty, at which time Tattoo was there, but Leslie had run a quick errand in town for her guardian. Roarke promptly welcomed Randolph in and invited him to sit. The doctor shook his head smilingly. "No thank you, I'll stay only a minute. May I ask you a favor, please?"

"Certainly, Dr. Randolph," Roarke agreed quizzically.

"Will it be all right if I used the facilities in the island hospital?"

"Oh, by all means, doctor," Roarke said immediately, and the doctor thanked him smilingly.

Tattoo spoke up curiously just as Leslie came in from the foyer. "How is Mrs. Warner doing?"

"What can I say? I'm going to run some tests on her anyway." He turned to Roarke. "It's a shame. She's a wonderful lady, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is, doctor…" Roarke nodded, graceful towards Fran Warner despite their bad beginning.

Dr. Randolph drew in a breath. "Mr. Roarke, I feel I must tell you…I know that you're not Nancy's father." Roarke only nodded understanding. "You see, I knew Nancy's real father. I also know that he ran out on Fran before Nancy was born." Leslie pushed her hands into her pockets, considering the thought that Nancy's father, like Michael Hamilton, had been just another selfish jerk. _Couldn't even be bothered to stick around and find out if Nancy was a boy or a girl, I guess,_ she thought disgustedly.

Tattoo stared up at Roarke with new realization. "Boss, you went along with it for the sake of the little girl?"

"Yes, Tattoo," Roarke said simply, glancing at Leslie, who smiled just a little_. Granting Nancy's fantasy, maybe?_ she wondered. _Only it's going to backfire…I know it will. There's no way it couldn't._

Dr. Randolph added, "You see, meeting her father was very important to her. So how are we going to tell her the truth?"

Roarke looked past him, through the window, for a moment. "We'll just have to wait for the right time, doctor."

Dr. Randolph assessed him and then smiled a little. "Mr. Roarke, for whatever it's worth, I admire you for what you're trying to do for Nancy and her mother."

Roarke shrugged it off. "No, there's nothing to admire, doctor. And I would appreciate it if you would keep this matter confidential, at least for the time being."

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you." Just then Fran came in as Roarke and the doctor shook hands again.

"Leslie," she said, catching sight of the older girl and instantly focusing on her, "have you seen Nancy? I can't find her any…where." Her voice trailed off as she finally registered Dr. Randolph standing in the study, and she stared at him, looking none too welcoming.

"Hello, Fran," the doctor said with a polite but warm smile.

"What are you doing here?" Fran demanded warily.

"Mr. Roarke sent for me," Dr. Randolph explained. "You missed Friday's appointment…"

The hostile glint was back in Fran's eyes. "Did you tell him?" she broke in before he could finish. He only stared gravely at her, giving her the answer she clearly had been dreading. Angrily she stalked into the room. "You had no right to tell him!"

Calmly Dr. Randolph remarked, "I suppose he's known all along." She looked at Roarke, who nodded quietly.

Tattoo chose that moment to put in, "What do you mean, Nancy is gone?"

"Just that," said Fran, anger instantly supplanted by worry. "I've looked for her, and I can't find her. I thought she might be with you or Leslie."

Roarke shook his head. "But please don't worry, Mrs. Warner. She couldn't have gone very far."

Fran frowned in distress. "She's not the type to wander off by herself."

"I know." Roarke turned immediately to his assistant. "Tattoo, I want every available member of the staff to start searching for her at once."

"Right, boss. Excuse me…" Tattoo departed quickly to spread the word.

"How long ago did she leave, Mrs. Warner?" Leslie asked.

"Just after supper," Fran said. "It was still light out at that point, but it was close to sunset, and I wanted to take some time to watch. She had said she wanted to come over here and try your cook's dessert…"

Leslie grinned. "I guess Nancy's partial to chocolate. Mana'olana—that's our cook—made a Mississippi mud pie. Boy, talk about rich. Anyway, I mentioned it to Nancy this afternoon and told her I'd save her some if she wanted any."

Fran laughed, her voice noticeably brittle. "That'd be just Nancy's speed all right. Oh dear…"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Warner," Roarke said then. "All the trails here eventually lead to some populated place, and there are no truly dangerous animals on this end of the island. We will find her." Fran looked bleakly at him, and Roarke nodded for emphasis. Leslie shot a glance out the shutters behind the desk, hoping the weather would stay clear.


	20. Chapter 20

§ § § -- February 7, 1982

Dark had fallen in full, and Tattoo had taken a large group of natives with torches to the other side of the island, per Roarke's instructions. Roarke had Leslie and Fran with him, and they'd been marching along trails for most of an hour now, repeatedly calling Nancy's name. Just when Leslie was beginning to think Nancy had managed to get herself into bigger trouble than they were capable of facing alone, Fran halted and raised herself onto her toes. "I think I hear something. Nancy! Nancy, honey, where are you?"

Faintly they heard a small voice wail, "Mommy, here I am, here I am!"

A couple of twists and turns and about fifty feet later, they came upon the little girl, sitting on the ground favoring an ankle, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Fran picks her up. "Oh Nancy, sweetheart…" she moaned, trembling with her relief and hugging her heard.

Nancy clung to her, squeezing her eyes shut. "Mommy, I was afraid."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. It's all right now." After a moment Fran set her back to look into her face. "What happened, huh? How did you get lost?"

Only then did Nancy look away, peering warily up at Roarke, barely glancing at Leslie. "I heard him talking. He said he really wasn't my father." It was the last thing Roarke had expected—for Nancy to have overheard Dr. Randolph's revelation—and he stared back at her, alarmed and regretful. "You lied to me!"

Roarke knelt to speak directly to her. "Oh no, Nancy. I didn't lie to you. I never actually said I was your father…did I?" She stared dubiously at him, but didn't argue the point. Even at just six, she was clearly too intelligent to be confused over who had said what. "And if I didn't say anything, it was only because I thought it made you happy."

Nancy frowned. "But _she_ lied to me." With that, she stared accusingly at Fran. "Why, Mommy, why did you lie to me?"

Fran winced, looking supremely regretful. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I guess I thought there wouldn't be a better person to be your daddy than Mr. Roarke, or a better place to live than Fantasy Island."

"But I was happy with you, just the way we were," Nancy protested.

"And I was happy with you too, sweetie." Fran turned to Roarke, anguished. "Oh, I've got to tell her—"

"No, please don't—please," Roarke entreated, and waited for Fran's reluctant, tacit consent before he shifted his attention to Nancy. "Nancy, will you listen to me? I have a goddaughter—her name is Julie. She's a lovely young lady. I'm sure she would like you very much. And you know what _she_ would like, very much? Very, very much?" Eyeing him with wary interest, Nancy shook her head. "A little sister. Someone exactly like you."

Nancy blinked, hopeful through her tears. "Then I could be your goddaughter too?"

"Of course." Roarke smiled, and Leslie grinned; she knew Julie well enough to know there'd be no resistance to the idea of a little sister on Julie's part, after so many years of being in that position herself!

"Did you hear that, Mommy?" Nancy cried, half beaming, half in residual tears, hugging Fran. "Then I would not only have a daddy, but _two_ big sisters!"

Fran was crying a bit also. "Yes…yes, I heard. I heard." They hugged each other hard; Roarke arose and smiled at Leslie.

"What do you think?" he inquired with a teasing smile.

Leslie chuckled, watching Fran and Nancy cling to each other. "I'm beginning to think I'm part of a really crazy patchwork quilt of a family…between you as my guardian, Jamie Marsh as my stepbrother, and now Nancy Warner and Julie as honorary sisters." Roarke burst into hearty laughter, making Fran and Nancy look up. Nancy dissolved into giggles too, and even Fran managed to produce a watery smile through her tears.

§ § § -- February 8, 1982

They returned to the main house a little early the next morning after seeing off their time-traveling guest, and found Nancy jumping rope in the lane with a couple of little native girls and Fran sitting on an iron bench watching. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie approached her, and she caught sight of them and quickly stood up. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…I wanted to thank you and Tattoo both for everything you've done for me and Nancy…and to apologize again for all the embarrassment I caused you."

Roarke smiled dismissively. "There is no need to apologize, Mrs. Warner. Everything you did was out of love for your child."

Tattoo urged excitedly, "Tell her, boss."

"Very well," Roarke said indulgently. "Mrs. Warner, I just left Dr. Randolph, and he is very excited about the results of your latest tests." Astounded, Fran goggled at him.

"What do you mean?" she ventured, as if afraid to hear the answer.

"It seems there are signs of significant remission in your illness. Dr. Randolph feels that in time, you stand an excellent chance of complete recovery."

Fran's hands drifted to her cheeks. "Oh, I can't believe it! I—I'm so happy now that I didn't tell Nancy about my illness."

Roarke nodded and gazed over his shoulder at Nancy jumping rope. Thoughtfully he commented, "You know, I rather enjoyed being Nancy's 'father.' I will miss her when she leaves. In fact, I will miss you both, Mrs. Warner."

Tattoo put in, "I'll miss you too."

"So will I," Leslie admitted. "It was fun having a little sister again."

"You're all so sweet to say that," Fran said, half laughing out of sheer joy and wonder at the good news. "Well, would you excuse me before I begin to cry?" Without waiting for their response, she went straight to Nancy and knelt, holding out her arms. "Where's my baby?" Nancy instantly bounded away from her game and ran to hug her mother.

Roarke sat in Fran's place on the bench. "Never have I been more pleased with the outcome of a fantasy."

Tattoo agreed, "It's beautiful." He and Roarke eyed Leslie, who was watching Fran hugging Nancy and dropping kisses in her daughter's hair. "Hey, Leslie, what about you?"

She started a little and looked at them, smiling with feigned wryness. "I think you better find that driver to get me off to school before I start blubbering like an idiot in front of all these people," she told them, and they both laughed, patting her arm.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

"Somehow," Christian commented with a chuckle, "I had a feeling there'd be a happy ending to that fantasy. Although, from the way it began, I thought for a while that there'd be some incurable enmity."

"Fran Warner was acting out of desperation," said Roarke, "though in the beginning it was very well disguised. Yes, I must say, that was one of the more satisfying fantasies I had the privilege of granting—though before either of you accuses me of having more than my usual hand in it, I can assure you I had nothing whatsoever to do with the remission of Fran Warner's illness."

"Did you ever hear from them again?" Christian asked, grinning and obligingly changing the subject.

"We got Christmas cards every year," said Leslie. "Nancy always handmade hers and sent us one and Julie one, and she'd write, _Merry Christmas to my big sister Leslie_ and the same thing to Julie. They were here for about two weeks, making sure Mrs. Warner was doing fine and her illness was really in remission, and then went back to San Francisco. About two years later Mrs. Warner and Dr. Randolph actually got married, and Nancy eventually got two younger brothers and a younger sister, for real."

There was a whimper from upstairs and both Christian and Leslie sat up straight. Roarke grinned. "I see the parental radar is working fine in both of you. This would be a good moment for us to take another break so you can check on the children."

Laughing softly, Christian and Leslie got up together and went upstairs to peek in at the triplets, who now had cribs in the entertainment room so that whenever Christian stayed overnight as well, he and Leslie could have some privacy. Once they slipped into the room, they found themselves looking at Tobias in the nightlight, standing up in his crib and clutching the rail for all he was worth, working his way up to some serious sobbing.

"Poor little guy," Leslie murmured, going right to him with Christian hard on her heels. She lifted her son out of the crib and cuddled him against her shoulder. "What's the matter, sweetie, huh?"

Tobias mumbled something unintelligible; his parents had no way of telling whether it was in English or _jordiska_, but as Christian observed, "I suspect he had a bad dream. Look, I think he's settling down already. He just needed a little comfort from us."

"Daddy," Tobias said sleepily, without moving his head from Leslie's shoulder.

"_Hallå då, lillan min,"_ Christian said softly in his own tongue, smoothing a palm over Tobias' hair. The little boy smiled drowsily and closed his eyes, and Leslie squeezed him and gently settled him back in the crib.

"I guess it wasn't that bad a dream if he recovered from it that fast," she said lightly, fielding Christian's grin. "I'm glad. Did you have a lot of nightmares as a child?"

"No more than any other little boy, I suppose," Christian mused, shrugging and preceding her out of the room. "Why, though, do I have the strange feeling that you may have had more nightmares than you deserved, after all the things you've undoubtedly seen and met on this island? Perhaps I should have you and Mr. Roarke tell me about the scariest fantasy you two ever granted."

"I can think of a good candidate right now," Leslie said, following him downstairs. She grinned at Roarke over her husband's shoulder as they descended. "Father, I think Christian's looking for a good scare all of a sudden. Do you have the same fantasy in mind that I do, by any chance?"

"Are you thinking of a certain Maori, perhaps?" Roarke inquired, grinning back, and she nodded, making him laugh and look at Christian. "What brings this on?"

"Oh, Tobias probably had a bad dream," Christian said, sitting down once more. "As Leslie said, it must have been mild as these things go, since he calmed down very quickly. Of course, if either you or Leslie feels you might be prone to residual nightmares if you describe this one fantasy to me, then…"

"Stuff like that never bothers Father," Leslie said and smirked impishly at him. "As for me, if I do have a nightmare from this, all I have to do is wake you up." Christian rolled his eyes, and she and Roarke both laughed. "Well, okay, just remember, you asked for it. This one was more recent, about three years before you and I first met each other. And honestly, there must've been something in the air, judging from the way everybody was acting…"

§ § § -- June 4, 1993

"Something is very wrong," Mariki announced unexpectedly at breakfast on a June Friday morning that looked just like every other. Leslie gave her a strange look; Roarke only glanced at her.

"Like what?" Leslie asked. "The weather's perfect—no hurricanes."

"That's not what I mean, Miss Leslie," Mariki said solemnly, unloading her cart. "Bad things are going to happen this weekend. I can feel it, and I'm not the only one."

Leslie frowned, skeptical, and looked at Roarke. It was his expression that made her suddenly uneasy: he was watching Mariki with thoughtful, solemn eyes. "So there has been talk around the island, then?"

Mariki nodded. "For at least the last two weeks, Mr. Roarke," she said.

"Then take your usual precautions," Roarke told her, completely bewildering Leslie. Mariki nodded again, finished placing the last of the serving dishes on the table and departed the veranda without another word.

"All right, what's happening that you haven't told me about?" Leslie wanted to know.

"In due time, child," Roarke said. "Right now, have some breakfast. We have special guests arriving this morning." She shot him a dubious look; he nodded and gestured at the laden table, making her sigh in resignation and start filling her plate.

Even their Polynesian driver looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Roarke didn't comment on the man's evident skittishness, simply gestured him on down the lane as he always did. By the time they reached the plane dock, the natives' nervousness had transferred itself to Leslie and she was battling a stomach full of butterflies.

"Smiles, everyone, smiles!" Roarke called out. This time it was more of a command than a gentle reminder; there were many apprehensive faces this morning. Leslie stared around the clearing, trying to understand but failing utterly.

The plane door opened, and three females stepped out one by one: first a brunette woman, a little too slender, her face a study in worry; then a woman who would have looked right at home among Fantasy Island's native population. The Polynesian woman shielded a blonde little girl with a large black umbrella; the child marched ahead without once looking around, her face totally without expression.

"Who are they?" Leslie asked, watching them.

"The lady with the troubled look? She is Mrs. Lorna Hendricks," Roarke said softly.

"And the other two?" Leslie prompted.

"Her daughter, Stephanie, and a native woman named Megwa."

"Not exactly a jolly threesome," she commented dryly.

Roarke didn't look very jolly himself, she noted. "It seems that Stephanie has withdrawn into a dark world of her own…turned into a child her mother doesn't know anymore." His dark eyes narrowed, focusing on Stephanie.

"And Mrs. Hendricks' fantasy is—?" Leslie prompted again.

"To have the daughter she once knew, and still loves very much, returned to her," said Roarke, still in that soft voice that seemed to carry an ominous undertone.

Leslie grew mildly exasperated; for some reason, getting information out of him this morning was akin to attempting to chop down a tree using a steak knife. "What happened to Stephanie?" she asked.

"A few months ago," Roarke explained, "she was with her father in a primitive region of New Zealand when Mr. Hendricks was killed by some…wild animal." A slightly puzzled look crossed his features just for a moment.

Leslie bit her lip. "That's a bad experience for such a little girl," she said. Stephanie looked to be about ten or eleven years old. She herself could sympathize and understand what Stephanie must be feeling—except that she wasn't sure Stephanie was feeling anything at all. The child merely stared like a robot. What was wrong with her?

"More terrible than even you know, my child," Roarke said, glancing at her.

"But at least she escaped with her life," Leslie offered hopefully.

"With her life, yes," Roarke agreed, frowning. "But with her soul…that has yet to be resolved." Leslie shot him an alarmed look, but she could see that he would reveal nothing further. She automatically searched the dock for the next party, but no one came forth; in fact, the attendants had closed the door and were in the process of disengaging the seaplane from its moorings.

"Father, aren't there any other guests?" she asked in astonishment.

"No, my child," Roarke said, shaking his head, his gaze distant. "Mrs. Hendricks' fantasy is so strange, I thought it best if they came alone."

Leslie's stomach began to roll quietly at that. If Roarke—the man who took so much in stride—thought this was an unusual fantasy, then the weekend ahead promised to be one to remember. As Roarke raised his glass and toasted the newcomers, Leslie pasted on a smile that she knew was phonier than Astroturf, trying to hide her growing discomfort.


	21. Chapter 21

§ § § -- June 4, 1993

At the main house Lorna Hendricks stood in front of Roarke's desk, looking utterly defeated; she hung her head, her posture drooping, her whole demeanor exhausted. When she finally looked up at Roarke, her eyes were filled with desperation, the only animated thing about her. "Stephanie used to be so full of laughter and mischief," Lorna said softly. "Now she's strange, she's cold." Leslie's gaze drifted out the window to rest on Stephanie, who sat at one of the tables in the clearing. There were others nearby, but all those with umbrellas were occupied; so Megwa stood over the little girl, holding the umbrella over her head and glaring at anyone who looked at them askance. "Ever since we returned from New Zealand, she's become someone…" Lorna hesitated. "Someone I don't know. A stranger."

"That woman's a native of New Zealand, isn't she?" Leslie muttered, frowning.

"Maori," confirmed her father, "an ancient aboriginal people. Is that right, Mrs. Hendricks?"

"Yes," said Lorna. "Megwa used to be my husband's camp cook in New Zealand. Eric was a good father, Mr. Roarke. He loved Stephanie very much."

Roarke smiled warmly. "I'm sure he did." The smile faded as he turned from the desk and directed his own gaze after his daughter's, studying the Maori. "I understand that the little girl was with Mr. Hendricks when he was killed."

"She's never gotten over it," Lorna said. "She won't talk about it. She was sick for a long time; Megwa's taken care of her."

Roarke's gaze narrowed on Megwa and seemed to grow strange and concentrated even as Leslie and Lorna watched him. "And Stephanie became very attached to her," he murmured, "insisted that she should come here to Fantasy Island with you both…"

Lorna stared at him in surprise, while Leslie smiled wryly to herself. "Why yes," said Lorna, startled. "Did I mention that?"

Roarke blinked and turned from the window. "Didn't you?…" Lorna looked confused, clearly trying to remember; Leslie caught Roarke's gaze just long enough to see his slight, fleeting smile. His attention drifted back to Stephanie and Megwa, as if compelled. "Megwa seems obsessed with shielding Stephanie from the sun," he remarked. "I wonder why?"

Lorna shrugged, looking mystified. "It had something to do with the illness Stephanie caught in New Zealand. Her skin has become extremely sensitive to direct sunlight. I've taken her to doctors, but they can't seem to diagnose her condition. Mr. Roarke…" Her direct appeal brought Roarke's focus back to her. "You're my last hope."

Roarke smiled reassuringly and said, "I've arranged accommodations for you—a quiet, charming cottage on the other side of the island—so you and Stephanie can spend some time together."

Lorna's smile seemed hopeful but weary. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke," she murmured. Leslie silently accompanied her to the door and saw her out; when Lorna was gone Leslie returned to her father, whose gaze was once again directed out the window. The Maori woman stubbornly continued to hold the umbrella over the little girl's head.

Leslie shook her head. "The lady has a real problem," she observed.

Roarke spoke without ceasing his scrutiny of Stephanie and Megwa. "It's not her problem, my daughter," he contradicted her gently. "It's mine…a challenge to me."

"From whom?" Leslie asked, dreading the answer.

Just as she spoke, Megwa turned, spotted Roarke watching from the window, and glared malevolently back at him. Leslie bit her lip and shifted her own attention to Roarke, who never flinched—in fact, he seemed lost in a battle of wills. After a long moment he murmured distantly, "Other forces…"

‡ ‡ ‡

They all took one car to the western end of the island, some distance past the pineapple plantation and not too far from the castle where Tattoo had once been held for ransom by a former employee of Roarke; here there were no beaches, only high, rocky cliffs that afforded magnificent views from their summits. The cottage Roarke had in mind was a small, two-bedroom house, set atop a gentle rise and flanked by an expanse of manicured emerald-green lawn. Across the Ring Road was a thinly-sown patch of woods, through which the ocean could be seen; beyond the trees, the land sloped roughly toward a sheer cliff face and a steep drop to the sea.

Roarke stopped the car in front of the lawn and cut the engine; the five of them got out, and Megwa promptly opened the umbrella for Stephanie. Leslie, standing on the same side of the car, watched with a faint frown as Stephanie slid out of the middle seat where she had been sitting between her mother and Megwa. The girl's face was still blank; she was totally lacking in the normal childish exuberance and the expulsion of pent-up energy that should have accompanied the end of a trip. Lorna and Roarke came around the car from the driver's side; Roarke paused beside Leslie while Lorna continued on up the pathway to the cottage, delighted by the attractive little house. Roarke noted where his daughter's attention was focused, and watched with an interested silence as Stephanie met Leslie's gaze. Leslie stared back, arrested by the unnatural glint in Stephanie's big blue eyes. There was something very disturbing about them, she thought, even threatening.

Roarke deliberately broke the spell she seemed to be caught in. "Well, Stephanie," he said jovially, "isn't this like having your own corner of heaven?"

Stephanie's gaze shifted to Roarke, and Leslie blinked and then frowned as Megwa silently adjusted her stance at Stephanie's right, to afford the child maximum protection from the sun's glare. "Do you believe heaven is an island?" Stephanie asked skeptically.

"It could be," Leslie offered with a small smile.

Roarke nodded expansively. "A lovely place like this, set apart from a world of unhappiness…and evil—" He addressed the last word directly to the child.

"There is no evil here?" Stephanie asked mockingly.

Roarke met her peculiar look. _"Is_ there evil here, Stephanie?" he prodded deliberately. There was no reply from either Stephanie or Megwa, although the latter was eyeing Roarke with increasing suspicion. But none of them was prepared for Roarke's next action. He smiled at them both and said, "Enjoy yourselves. It's all yours!"

As he spoke the last three words, he indicated the cottage, its lawn, and the vista across from it with one wide, sweeping gesture. His left hand caught the umbrella Megwa held, knocking it out of her hands and abruptly exposing Stephanie to the hot early-summer sun overhead. Megwa let out a gasp and lunged for the fallen sunshade as Stephanie shrank and cringed, trying to shield herself from the bright light. Roarke and Leslie stared at the child in fascination.

Megwa hastily shaded Stephanie once more, glaring furiously at Roarke, who smiled apologetically. "Oh, I am terribly sorry," he said. Leslie eyed him sidewise, amusement in her eyes. Had it really been an accident? Something told her it hadn't.

"Stephanie!" Lorna called out then from the foot of the front steps. "It's charming! Come on, hurry!" Megwa gave Roarke one last threatening glare before herding Stephanie up the walk toward Lorna, all the while carefully keeping the child in the circle of shade the umbrella provided. For a moment Roarke and Leslie lingered, watching them go; then Roarke nodded at Leslie, and she slid into the passenger seat, unable to resist one last glance after the retreating Maori woman and the odd little girl.

‡ ‡ ‡

Early that afternoon, both Roarke and Leslie were immersed in assorted paperwork, trying to clear out as much as they could while they had some opportunity to them. Mostly Leslie was handling fantasy choices and scheduling, something she hadn't done for years; it was nice to get back to it again, what with Lorna and Stephanie Hendricks on the other side of the island and no other guests to attend to. Roarke had caught up on accounting and was now immersed in organizing bills, for which Leslie would later write out checks; he also had payroll paperwork to handle.

All of a sudden the door opened and an Asian man stuck his head in. Leslie instantly recognized him as Camille's father, Paul Ichino. "Hi, Mr. Ichino, come on in," she invited.

"Thanks, Miss Leslie," he said, turning behind him. "Well, come on, you two." He moved farther into the foyer, and now Leslie could see that he was being trailed by his two youngest sons, Jeremy and Jonathan, who both looked spooked in a way that made them seem younger than their fourteen years.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Ichino?" Roarke inquired.

Paul stopped in front of the desk, and the boys pulled to a stop one on either side of him. Jonathan held what appeared to be the remains of a toy airplane in both hands; Jeremy clutched a small control box with a miniature joystick in the top. "I don't suppose we would've said anything, but…well, considering what just happened, I had this feeling it was something you ought to know about. I mean, it involved some people who I think came here from the States. Probably guests of yours."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "What happened?" Roarke asked.

Paul hesitated, clearing his throat, and Jonathan spoke then. "It was _creepy,_ Mr. Roarke," he said.

Jeremy nodded, ruefully eyeing the control box. "Worse than that, it was…well, it was right out of a Stephen King book, y'know?"

Finally Paul seemed to find his voice again. "We were down the other end of the island," he began. "Just for an outing, Mr. Roarke—since school's let out for the summer, you know, and the boys and I thought we'd try out the new model plane they got for their birthday a couple of months ago. It was the first chance we had to give it a whirl. So we thought we'd make an excursion out of it, and we biked down to the western end of the island and took a picnic lunch that my wife packed for us. She and the girls, well, they've taken the charter to Hawaii to visit my son Tommy and his family for the weekend…"

"Dad," Jonathan broke in.

Paul shot him a look. "I'm getting to it, Jonathan. Anyway, we had our picnic, and then we unpacked the plane and read the directions…three times, no less." Jeremy and Jonathan nodded solemnly. Roarke and Leslie exchanged another glance, both with the feeling that this was significant somehow. Paul continued: "So we figured out how to operate it, and got it set up, and put the batteries in the control box, and all that other stuff it said to do before we started trying to fly it."

"And it was doing great," Jonathan put in, suddenly coming to animated life. "Oh wow, you shoulda just seen it. Zipping along just as pretty as anything. I even made it do a loop-the-loop."

"And then I had a turn," Jeremy said, a wistful look on his face. "What a terrific plane that was. I got it up over the treetops and just circled it back around to us. If you squinted, it almost looked like the real thing."

"We landed it a minute, and then I got it back off the ground and Jonathan was flying it again. That's when it started doing the strangest things," Paul said, his brows beetling with perplexity at the memory. Roarke and Leslie listened avidly. "It was just flying over a tree not too far from us, and then out of nowhere it cranked around and sped up like crazy, and started beelining it for this woman who was walking by herself along the top of the cliff. She had her back to us and she didn't even see the plane coming at her. I thought Jonathan was doing something stupid and I yelled at him—"

"It wasn't me, Mr. Roarke," Jonathan broke in then, clearly eager to absolve himself. "I swear it. I kept trying to move the joystick and the plane wouldn't do anything I wanted it to. It just kept shooting straight for that woman. Buzzed her right over her head, and she was right on the edge of the cliff, and the way it flew at her, it made her slip while she was trying to run away from it."

Leslie gasped, and Roarke's gaze sharpened. "What happened?" he demanded, his voice clipped.

"I grabbed the control and tried to turn the plane, but I couldn't make it respond either," Paul said in a tight, anxious voice. "All we could do was stand there and watch it nearly hit that poor woman. And this thing was…it was like there was someone else controlling it, it just kept dive-bombing her over and over again. And the whole time, she was…it was like she was being driven toward the edge of the cliff…by the plane. I know it sounds insane, but no lie, that's what happened, the boys and I all saw it. We just couldn't make it stop, no matter what we did…"

"And then she slipped on the cliff edge and went right over the side," Jonathan related in a rush. "I mean, we didn't really think that was gonna happen…but then it did, and she started screaming, and Dad dropped the control and yelled at us to help her. It took all three of us to get her back up and onto solid ground."

"And the whole time she was crying," Jeremy mumbled, fingering the control box in an unconsciously frenetic manner. "Dad asked if she was okay, and she just stared at us with tears running down her face…and then she just said, 'Stephanie'."

"Oh my God," Leslie breathed, just above a whisper.

"We looked around, and there was this native woman standing beside a little girl," said Paul. "The woman had this…this look…I can't explain it. She just looked like she'd been, oh, I don't know…she was upset anyway. And the kid—" He stopped and shuddered.

"We found the plane after they were gone. Took us half an hour," Jeremy said, staring sadly at the wreckage in his brother's hands. "That's what's left of it."

"Good Lord," Leslie burst out, staring at it and shaking her head.

"We thought they must be guests of yours," Paul said again, shrugging helplessly. "It was incredible. There was something about that little girl that just scared the living daylights out of me."

Roarke nodded, his expression softening. "Yes, I quite understand, Mr. Ichino. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." Paul nodded acknowledgment.

His sons, in awe of Roarke and better acquainted with Leslie due to her friendship with their sister, turned to her. "That woman looked really cruel, Miss Leslie," Jonathan said uneasily. "Like she was sorry we rescued that poor lady."

"Yeah," Jeremy agreed. "She had this death grip on that kid, but it was like the kid didn't even feel it. There must be something wrong with her."

Leslie smiled crookedly. "Oh, there is," she said softly. "Believe me, you're better off staying away from her. She's…got a problem."

"Yes," Roarke murmured concurrence, eyeing his daughter for a moment before turning to Paul Ichino. "Thank you again for letting us know."

"You're welcome, sir," replied Paul, who unlike his overly curious boys knew better than to ask questions which he was well aware Roarke had no intention of answering. "All right, come on, you two…and don't you breathe a word of this to your mother, you hear?"

When they were gone, Leslie looked dubiously at Roarke. "Do you really think we should have left them alone over there?"

Roarke frowned and aimed a quick glance at the grandfather clock. "It's too late to bother them now," he said. It was late afternoon by now. "At any rate, there is still a good deal of research I must do once we have taken care of all this paperwork. We'll go to them tomorrow."


	22. Chapter 22

§ § § -- June 5, 1993

At eight o'clock sharp Roarke and Leslie arrived at the cottage where Lorna and Stephanie Hendricks and Megwa were staying; Roarke hadn't quite stopped the car when the front door burst open and Lorna Hendricks fairly flew down the long front walk toward them. She was alone and her face was a study in mingled terror and desperation. "Mr. Roarke—Mr. Roarke," she cried on the way down. Roarke stopped the car and he and Leslie got out, just in time for Lorna to stumble to a halt before them. "Mr. Roarke, I was almost killed by a black panther that broke in during the night—"

Roarke and Leslie exchanged astonished looks; then he turned to Lorna. "Please, please, calm yourself," he interrupted gently. Lorna subsided and stood trying to catch her breath, and Roarke leaned slightly forward. "Now, did I understand you to say a…black panther?" he asked.

"Yes," Lorna cried.

Leslie finally found her voice. So they _had_ heard her right. But… "A black panther? _Here?"_

"I can assure you, there are no black panthers on the island," Roarke said.

"There weren't supposed to be any in New Zealand either!" Lorna shot back. Again her hosts looked at each other, both at a loss.

Leslie shook her head, bewildered. "I don't understand."

"Eric's guide wrote me a letter," Lorna told her. "He swore he saw a black panther attacking Eric. By the time he got his rifle, the animal had disappeared and Eric was…dead!" Her face crumpled with new grief and fear, and Roarke laid a soothing hand on her shoulder while Leslie tried to sort through the seemingly senseless story in her head.

"But how did the authorities explain the animal?" Roarke asked, almost as confused as his daughter.

"They didn't believe it," Lorna said, despair in her voice. "They couldn't find any tracks—and the black panther last night didn't leave any tracks either." With one swift look across the lawn, Roarke noted the truth of this, and both his and Leslie's skepticism returned. It must have shown on their faces, for Lorna insisted, "I tell you, I saw it! Help me, Mr. Roarke, please!"

"Now, let's go inside, Mrs. Hendricks, and we'll talk about it now…and it'll be all right, huh?" Roarke suggested gently, ushering her back toward the cottage. It appeared that she was there alone, although as they came inside, they could see that one of the bedroom doors was closed, for whatever reason. Leslie offered to make tea for her father and their guest, and they both agreed; she herself, not a tea drinker, settled for a glass of juice that had been left in the refrigerator for Stephanie.

When Leslie returned with the tea tray, she stopped short in the living room at sight of the broken glass scattered on the floor under the side window. "What…?" she began.

Roarke waved her inside and past the mess to the tiny dining room. "Be careful," he said, watching her pick her way along.

"The panther did that," Lorna said firmly. "It leaped right through that window, trying to get at me."

"Well, _some_thing broke that window," Leslie mumbled, although she still wasn't quite ready to believe in magically appearing panthers. Still… Unable to resolve it with what she knew about the island, she dropped the subject and set the tray on the table, pouring for Roarke and Lorna before sitting down.

Silence held sway for a while as they sipped at their respective beverages. After a time the color had returned to Lorna's face, and Roarke smiled at her over his teacup. "Feel better now, Mrs. Hendricks?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"That's good, that's good," Roarke said warmly.

Lorna let out a sigh and set down her cup. "I just don't understand what's happening anymore," she admitted, her gaze skittering across the glass shards in the living room and then brightening. "Anyway, I'm sure the trip will brighten this all up."

Roarke froze in the act of reaching for his cup. "What…trip?"

"To Tutumoa," Lorna said.

"Tutumoa!?" Leslie echoed in amazement. It was the only actual mountain on the island, and to her knowledge only those of their guests who were mountain climbers ever went anywhere near it. Located quite near the pineapple plantation about a third of the way inland from this side of the island, its low peak was visible from the back of the cottage. Mariki had often been heard to claim the mountain was haunted, and Leslie remembered their cook's words from the previous morning and wondered uneasily if maybe there wasn't something to Mariki's pronouncements after all.

"Megwa suggested we take a hike up there in the morning to watch the sun rise," said Lorna, sipping from her refilled cup.

Leslie stared at her in surprise. "But I thought you said that Stephanie was allergic to the sun," she protested.

"Direct sunlight only, Leslie," Roarke clarified. "They say Tutumoa is always partly shrouded in clouds…day and night become one." Again he reached for the teacup, his eyes distant. "It was a place where pagan sacrifices were offered to the gods, thousands of years ago." He focused abruptly on Lorna. "What else does Megwa know about the island, Mrs. Hendricks?"

"She mentioned some other place to Stephanie," Lorna said thoughtfully, thinking back. "Um…Te Reinga."

Leslie drew a blank and turned to Roarke. "That's a new one on me, Father."

Roarke glanced at her and then at Lorna, who looked a little apprehensive now. She sat up and queried, "Mr. Roarke, this Tutumoa…are you saying we shouldn't go there?"

"No," Roarke answered with some force, frowning and staring at nothing. "I think you must go. I think…it is imperative."

‡ ‡ ‡

There were no reported further attempts on Lorna's life that day; in fact, Roarke and Leslie did not hear from the Hendricks party at all. With no other fantasies to check on and only the usual vacationers on the island otherwise, plus the final completion of the previous day's backed-up paperwork, they had time to do further research on Maori mythology and sacred places. Out of necessity, Leslie had gone through the day's mail and set aside a stack of fantasy-request letters for her father to examine later, and they had eaten lunch at the usual time. But they were both engrossed by the time supper was to be served, and Mariki came into the study and scolded them quite roundly for not coming out and partaking of the meal.

"Okay, okay," Leslie said, holding up her hands and laughing. "Calm down, Admiral. We're on the way. Anyway, Father, we could use a break, don't you think?"

"Perhaps so," Roarke agreed, closing the book he had been looking through. "What's on the menu, Mariki?"

"It's light, the way you prefer, sir," Mariki told him. "Gazpacho and Caesar salads."

"Oh, sounds wonderful," said Leslie. "Lead the way."

Roarke's mind wandered during the meal; about midway through it, there was a distant rumble of thunder and Leslie went on the alert. "Terrific," she muttered, pulling Roarke out of his reverie. "Just what we need."

"What's that, Leslie?" her father queried indulgently.

She looked up at him in surprise. "Don't tell me you didn't hear that thunder just now," she said incredulously. "I guess there's a storm coming in."

"Oh, yes, the weather report this morning mentioned something about inclement weather," Roarke said dismissively. "In actual fact, the rain would do us good."

"Sure," Leslie agreed, "if it'd just rain and nothing else." Roarke eyed her and laughed.

"Perhaps we will have to work on that thunderstorm phobia of yours," he said. "Try not to fret so much, Leslie. Why don't you finish eating and we'll try to complete that research tonight. Something tells me time is of the essence here."

Once the meal was over, they returned to going through books; Leslie finished before Roarke did and got up to check the storm through the tall shuttered windows behind the desk. The sky was now fully overcast, and it was nearly dark. She flinched as a flash of lightning threw stark shadows onto the walls for a second or two.

"Aha," Roarke exclaimed unexpectedly, and she jumped again and whipped around to stare at him.

"Did you find something?" she asked.

Roarke nodded. "Here we have it," he said, finger on the relevant page in the book that lay open in front of him. "According to island lore, it was on top of Mount Tutumoa that the high priest drove the son of darkness, a demon named Karakia, back into a cave called…Te Reinga."

Leslie frowned. "That's the name that Mrs. Hendricks heard Megwa mention to Stephanie," she recalled.

"Yes," said Roarke with a confirming nod, "an ancient Maori expression. It means 'cavern of eternal darkness' in the local dialect."

"Then the Maoris—Megwa's people—once lived here," Leslie realized. "Apparently this island was on their migratory route to New Zealand."

"Mm-hmm, over a thousand years ago. Mount Tutumoa was sacred ground to them." Roarke arose from the desk, closing the book, and joined her at the window; as if in greeting, a bolt of lightning split the skies and thunder ripped through the air, close enough to send vibrations through the ground that made the main house tremble on its foundation. Leslie gasped and cringed a little, and Roarke slipped a comforting arm around her.

She shivered in his embrace. "Demons?…Sacrifices?" she murmured as if to herself. "And this weather's just a shade too appropriate…"

Roarke regarded her with amusement. "You're not getting frightened, are you, my child?" he teased gently.

Leslie grinned gamely. "Who, me?" she parried, and he smiled, releasing her and gazing thoughtfully into the roiling black sky.

"That child is caught up in an ancient pagan ritual," he mused aloud, "a ritual of the past intruding on the present…"

"And we're up against a stone wall," commented Leslie, discouraged.

That halted Roarke where he stood, and he turned to stare at her with wide eyes, interpreting her words completely differently from the meaning she had intended. "Good," he breathed, "good! You're very shrewd, Leslie!"

She focused on him in blank surprise. "I am? What am I shrewd about, Father?"

"The ancient carvings in the stone wall at the foot of Tutumoa," Roarke told her with rising excitement, yanking open a desk drawer and extracting a large, powerful flashlight. "They must be the answer!" He urged her along with him; they left the house and drove down the Ring Road in the encroaching storm, taking the turnoff at the pineapple plantation but bypassing the lane that led to the farmhouse and its outbuildings. The road soon degenerated into a rutted dirt track that came to an end at the base of Mount Tutumoa, where the lightning revealed a black opening in the solid rock. Roarke picked up a lantern from the back of the jeep, lit it and started for the opening; Leslie grabbed the flashlight and scuttled after him, trying not to look overhead.

Roarke moved some twenty feet into the cavern, lantern held aloft and in front of them as far as his arm would extend, halting in front of a wall full of primitive etchings. He raised the lantern a little higher in order to study them more closely; it threw a reassuring golden light on the walls, though it didn't penetrate very far. Leslie occasionally swept the flashlight around them, just in case something alive and territorial was lurking deeper in the cave and might be scared off by the light; but her main attention was on the carved lines and drawings in the rock.

Finally Roarke said, "It seems the demon Karakia will be born again, in human form. When many moons move over the island, then Karakia will destroy the seed of earth and rise up again." Leslie squinted at the cryptic carvings, wondering how he could have interpreted this from what looked like a series of childish drawings to her. Thunder roared outside, making her flinch again, but Roarke spoke over it. "The sun—the god of light—can cast him back into Te Reinga for another thousand years."

Leslie blew out her breath in an effort to calm her own nerves. "Well, that's a relief," she said, and added at Roarke's quizzical look, "The earth still has only one moon."

"Wrong, my child—earth has dozens of moons," Roarke said, "only now they are called satellites." Her widened eyes traveled back to the wall carvings; thunder cracked again, very nearby. She grimaced and hugged herself while Roarke considered the message he had just received. "Tomorrow is the sixth of June," he murmured intensely. "Stephanie must reach the crest of Tutumoa by sunrise, six A.M."

His words triggered recognition in Leslie; they had dealt with Mephistopheles enough times for her to understand the significance of this. "The sixth month, the sixth day, at the sixth hour…"

"Yes, 666—the ancient number signifying the devil," Roarke confirmed. "The seed of earth…" He considered this for a moment. "That must mean Mrs. Hendricks. She's in terrible danger."

"From what, exactly?" Leslie asked. "The devil, or—?"

"The demon Karakia, my daughter," said Roarke, wrapping a protective arm around his only child as though she, rather than Stephanie, were the one involved. "The second coming of the son of darkness is to take place in that cave on top of Mount Tutumoa at six tomorrow morning, unless…" His voice trailed away, and he hugged Leslie closer while she huddled against him, wincing at a new onslaught of thunder. Finally Roarke murmured as if to himself, "Unless I can summon the god of light to stop him."

_I knew it,_ thought Leslie, squeezing her eyes shut. That old fear leaped to life in her gut again. As many times as Roarke had succeeded against all kinds of strange, evil entities, she never failed to worry about him nor to fear that somehow her father might be defeated. _He's all I have left on this planet…well, no, there's still Tattoo and his promise to take me in if I ever needed a place. But if something can happen to Father, there's no hope for any of us poor stupid mortals._ She stuck close beside Roarke as they moved hurriedly out of the shallow cavern towards the jeep, hoping to make it home before the storm finally broke.

§ § § -- June 6, 1993

Leslie was awakened at 5:00, although, for the first time since her release of Michael Hamilton to Mephistopheles a year and a half before, it wasn't a nightmare that brought her around. It was that persistent lump of apprehension that refused to budge from her stomach. She slipped out of bed and lifted the window shade enough to note that the sky had turned a sodden dark gray with first light. It had to be the first rainy weekend morning she had ever seen on Fantasy Island, and the irony of that brought a reluctant smile.

There came a tap on the door and she turned to see Roarke standing just outside the room. "I suspected you would be awake," he said with quiet humor.

Leslie shrugged. "I'll admit readily enough to being worried and scared for you," she told him. "I think that's what woke me up. I suppose you're about ready to leave for Tutumoa." She compressed her lips and looked at the floor.

Roarke regarded her in silence for long enough that she looked up at him again; only then did he speak, in a tone of gentle warning. "I will allow you to accompany me," he said slowly, "but you must agree to a condition. Don't attempt to assist me or anyone else, and at all costs remain quiet and out of harm's way—no matter what you may see." His gaze was intense. "Do you understand?"

She stared at him, unhappy with this restriction but unable to come up with any way out of it. She drew in a breath, exhaled and said at last, "I'll try, Father, I really will."

To her surprise, his expression softened. "Perhaps that's all I can ask of you," he said, smiling faintly. "All right, then…hurry and get dressed. We must leave as soon as possible."

As they stepped out of the main house at 5:25, the clouds began to break apart and blue sky peeped through. Toward the west there was clear sky, and Roarke smiled. "That will be an immense help," he said. "Be careful of the puddles, Leslie…"


	23. Chapter 23

§ § § -- June 6, 1993

It was ten minutes till six. In the cave known as Te Reinga, Lorna Hendricks lay on a flat stone slab, bound and gagged, unable to move or cry out. Stephanie stood guard nearby like a small statue, her face and eyes devoid of expression or intelligence. In one corner, Megwa—the instigator of all these horrors—stood with eyes closed, arms outstretched and palms facing upward, chanting a long, gloomy singsong incantation in the Maori tongue. Lorna was more terrified than she had ever been before in her entire life; her desperate attempts to catch Stephanie's eye were useless, as the child never moved. Their walk up here in the soft morning drizzle had begun so innocently; Stephanie had even turned her face up to the rain and laughed the way she always used to. Lorna had begun to feel real hope that Stephanie was returning to normal. Now that walk seemed like last year; she felt her life being measured in moments. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"The covenant awaits fulfillment," Megwa intoned in strange, archaic English. "The seed of the earth shall be destroyed, and the bonds of earth be fresh-broke. Karakia returns to us." With that, she turned to Stephanie, pointed at the child and nodded once. Like an automaton, Stephanie slowly revolved to face Lorna and raised a long, lethal knife whose blade glinted in the light of the ceremonial fire Megwa had built. It was clear that she was going to plunge it right through Lorna's heart.

"_No, Stephanie!!"_ Roarke voice shouted then, freezing the child, startling Megwa and making Lorna all but break her neck from twisting her head, trying to see him. Leslie, waiting out of Megwa's sight in the shadows in the cave entrance, wrapped her arms around her stomach. Was that a tremble she heard in Roarke's voice? "In the name of all that is holy," Roarke entreated, "I command you to put down the knife."

Stephanie's eyes focused, then lit with something terrible. She opened her mouth—and two voices emerged, her own and that of the demon that inhabited her. "The struggle is over, Roarke! The timeline cannot be stopped." The demon's voice overrode that of Stephanie as he spoke through her. "I, Karakia, now rise up from the endless nights of Te Reinga. The son of darkness is reborn!" With that, Stephanie made a gesture, and the floor directly in front of Roarke burst into a column of flame. Roarke backed hastily away, his eyes never leaving Stephanie's, and took up a post behind the slab where Lorna lay supine and helpless.

Megwa grinned with malicious triumph and lifted one arm in Roarke's direction, splaying her fingers; in response, another plume of fire exploded forth. Lorna struggled on the slab; Stephanie stared unblinkingly at Roarke; and Leslie watched helplessly. Roarke ducked away from the second explosion and tucked himself into a niche in the wall that was just big enough to shield him from any further harm. Stephanie turned away and stared at Megwa instead, as if awaiting further instructions.

But Roarke saw something none of the women did: in the eastern wall of the cave, there was a tiny crack that glowed with soft light. Narrowing his dark eyes and focusing every last ounce of his concentration, he directed his considerable mental powers toward that crack, knowing that this could well mean all their lives.

Inexorably the crack began to widen; dust issued from the lengthening fissure and small pebbles began to rain down while Megwa again gestured at Stephanie to stab Lorna with the knife. So far they hadn't noticed what Roarke was doing, and it took all Leslie had to stand where she was. The sight of the tumbling pebbles had caught her attention alone, and now she too gazed with intense hope at the crack in the wall, as if somehow she could help her father in his intent. _Hurry, hurry, before Stephanie carries out that awful woman's command,_ she thought frantically.

Roarke's powers gathered momentum finally: a whole chunk of rock suddenly broke away from the long crack in the wall, leaving a hole no one could possibly overlook. The first rays of the rising sun poured into the cave, illuminating the grisly scene as the last of the fires died out. Stephanie was caught directly in the blast of sunlight; the knife fell out of her hands and she cringed, her mouth gaping open and expelling Karakia's roar of excruciating pain. Like an apparition, the specter of a stunningly ugly humanoid form rose into the air over Stephanie's head and drifted slightly aside before solidifying into something corporeal. Stephanie crumpled senseless to the floor of the cave.

Megwa's face filled with horror as she realized what was happening. Leslie could no longer stand by and merely watch; disregarding Roarke's explicit instructions, she dashed into the cave and pulled off Lorna's gag, then began to work frantically on the knots of the ropes that bound her. The moment the gag came off, Lorna gasped hoarsely, "Stephanie!"

"Wait," Leslie hissed at her with wide, fearful eyes. "It's not over yet…"

As if to confirm this, Karakia let loose another furious howl, freezing both women and drawing their aghast attention. From behind them Roarke's voice filled the cave. "Karakia!" he thundered. "The god of light casts you back into the pit of Te Reinga—back to your underworld of perpetual darkness!"

Too frightened to move, Leslie and Lorna gaped helplessly while Karakia cranked around to face Roarke, lurching to one side in the process, and raised one hand with the clear intent to strike Roarke down. However, the sunlight was doing its job, and he fell back in agony, trying vainly to shield himself from it.

"Back to your darkness!" Roarke commanded again.

Moaning in pain, Karakia pulled himself to his feet, marshaling what remained of his fast-fading strength to advance on Megwa. "You failed me," he snarled at her.

"No," Megwa pleaded hoarsely, backing away from him. "No…" She raised her hands in supplication, her expression frantic. "No!"

"_You failed me!"_ Karakia roared and expended the last of his energy in a blinding fireball that swallowed Megwa, whose scream was the last sound she ever made. The cave floor rattled with the explosion, and Megwa disappeared forever. At the same time Leslie let out a reflexive cry, drawing Karakia's attention momentarily; but the demon wasn't capable of doing anything more. With a final howl of agony, he too vanished in the dissipating smoke.

Leslie had managed to undo Lorna's bindings enough that the latter woman had been working herself free; now Lorna broke loose and threw the ropes aside, scrambling off the stone slab. She gathered a weeping Stephanie into her arms and held her close, rocking her. "Stephanie," she murmured joyfully. "Oh, Stephanie…Mommy's here, darling…"

"Mommy," Stephanie sobbed, clinging to her. Lorna seemed oblivious to everything around her as she closed her eyes and smiled through her tears.

Roarke slowly approached his own daughter, who was watching the reunion with her own eyes full of tears. He reached for her and pulled her to her feet and into his arms, smiling at her. Somehow he couldn't find the heart to reprimand her for disobeying his instructions to her; he understood her motives.

"You did well, Leslie," he said quietly, making her tears spill over then. He brushed them away, only now allowing himself to relax and exhale with relief.

§ § § -- June 7, 1993

Lorna and Stephanie Hendricks both looked renewed with life and energy as they stepped out of the car at the plane dock. "I feel as if I've been through a horrible nightmare," Lorna said, "and you let me out of it, Mr. Roarke. How can I ever thank you?"

"Believe me," Roarke assured her, "that smile on your face—the loving smile of a proud mother—is payment enough, Mrs. Hendricks."

Stephanie, bouncing in place with restless energy, broke in then. "Mommy and I're gonna spend a whole month on the beach when we get home!

"Oh!" said Roarke with interest, returning her huge grin.

"We both need some sun," Lorna remarked.

"And each other," Leslie agreed, mirroring their beaming looks. They all traded farewells, and Roarke and Leslie watched mother and daughter playfully race each other to the dock before the pair turned and waved one last time.

"Oh…" Leslie exclaimed, remembering something. "Was there ever any explanation for that black panther Mrs. Hendricks insisted she saw?"

Roarke nodded. "It was Megwa," he said. "Karakia gave her the power to transform herself into a panther, so that it was ultimately she who was responsible for Eric Hendricks' death in New Zealand. Fortunately, it will be at least another thousand years before we need worry about him again."

"_We?"_ Leslie echoed, eyeing him; he raised an eyebrow at her, and she grinned.

§ § § -- November 19, 2005

Christian whistled softly when they finished. _"Herregud._ Yes, I guess I can see why that one would qualify for scariest fantasy ever. Especially if it was so terrible that you felt it was the only one you should grant that weekend."

"Considering the circumstances, I felt it only fair to devote my full resources to the problem," Roarke said. "Even Mephistopheles never chose to take that route, although I must say that Karakia was rather more primitive in nature than he."

"Definitely one of the weirder entities I remember encountering," Leslie agreed. "Now, my love, if that doesn't give you nightmares, nothing will."

"You'll have to pardon me if I disagree with that," Christian said, raising his brow at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. "For me, if Karakia didn't give me nightmares, then you can rest assured that the rising of my father from the dead certainly would."

Leslie burst out laughing despite herself; even Roarke chuckled. "Oh, my dear Christian, that was indeed quite cruel," he said, shaking his head in mock remonstrance.

"But the simple truth," Christian bantered, grinning. "Ah, well. I think we've killed rather more time than we should have at this. It's been great fun, and I've learned quite a lot, but I think it's time we wound up this little talk and got some rest."

Christian and Leslie made their way upstairs and began to prepare for bed; the phone rang downstairs as Christian headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth, and when he came back he found Leslie putting her shoes back on. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Something's popped up with one of the fantasies," Leslie said, "and Father's asked me to go with him. He promised me if I did this tonight, I could sleep in till nine tomorrow morning." She winked at him. "Sound like a deal to you?"

Christian laughed. "I guess I can't resist that. All right, my darling, but as you so often like to tell me just before I have to make some beastly-long trip to open another branch of Enstads Datoservice somewhere, be safe. After that story about the Maori demon, I have to admit to a slight case of nervousness."

She grinned at him. "Aha, I knew that had to've gotten to you at least a little bit. It'll be fine, my love—Father won't let anything happen to us, and anyway, there's nothing really dangerous happening this weekend. Nothing like that one anyway. Would you do me a favor and look in on the triplets for me? See you in a little while."

"All right, my Rose, I'll be waiting," she heard his voice follow her down the stairs, and smiled. In a way she was sorry it had grown so late; reminiscing with Roarke could easily have taken the whole night, and none of them would have really noticed, in all likelihood. But she suspected that one day she and Christian would come across some other little mystery about this island, and maybe they'd have another night like this, reliving fantasies of years ago and maybe learning a little more about the history of their home, this place that Leslie loved more than any other in the entire world.

* * *

**A/N:** _Possibly the longest tribute to Ricardo Montalbán on the whole web (grin). But I had so much fun writing this that it pretty much got away from me. Thank you all for the many great reviews I've gotten!_

_In order of their appearance in this story, these are the fantasies I transcribed and adapted:_

**The Challenge / A Genie Named Joe** : _original airdate February 13, 1982; starring Vic Morrow, Dick Sargent, Jane Powell, Kim Darby, Larry Linville_

**Unholy Wedlock / Elizabeth** : _original airdate January 13, 1980; starring David Cassidy, Misty Rowe, Eddie Mekka, Tina Louise_

**Backbone** : _an original fantasy by me…_

**Beautiful Skeptic / The Lost Platoon** : _original airdate November 27, 1982; starring Connie Stevens, Herb Edelman, Jimmie Walker, Ruta Lee, Gary Frank, Steve Kanaly, Don Stroud_

**Baby / Marathon: Battle of the Sexes** : _original airdate October 5, 1979; starring Barbi Benton, Arlene Golonka, Peter Isacksen, Dick Martin, Paul Petersen, Bob Seagren, Barbara Luna_

**The Case Against Mr. Roarke / Save Sherlock Holmes** : _original airdate February 6, 1982; starring Nicole Eggert, Laraine Stephens, Ron Ely, Peter Lawford, Donald O'Connor_

**Possessed** : _original airdate November 22, 1980 (stand-alone half-hour episode that aired prior to a 90-minute_ Love Boat _and a regular 60-minute_ Fantasy Island_); starring Barbara Parkins, Missy Gold, France Nuyen_


End file.
